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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27919870">Got you (Where I want you)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeepGoing/pseuds/KeepGoing'>KeepGoing</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shameless (US)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ian has a depressive episode, Ian has bi-polar, Ian is a sneaky bastard, Ian is studying to be an EMT, Ian learns to kill, M/M, Mickey falls in love for the first time, Mickey has some dark demons, Mickey kills but has his reasons, Retribution, Revenge, Serial Killers, Slow Burn, TRIGGER WARNINGS!!!, Terry Milkovich is dead, Uncle Ronnie is a POS, all art included in this fic are screenshots manipulated on a image editing site, bouncer!Mickey, but so does Ian, first person POV, graphic descriptions of killing, mentions of sexual abuse, serial killer mickey milkovich, underage non consensual abuse non descriptive</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:01:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>30,448</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27919870</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeepGoing/pseuds/KeepGoing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey Milkovich is a lot of things. He's a South Side native, an ex-con, a bouncer at the Fairy Tale, oh, and a serial killer. He throws the old pedophiles in the club out on their ass when they get too handsy with dancers and customers. But he doesn't leave it at that. Mickey makes sure they can't hurt anyone again. But when Ian Gallagher quite literally catches him in the act, his entire world changes and for the first time in his life, Mickey may have found someone who can really see him. But falling in love isn't easy on someone like him, but Ian teaches him that everyone has baggage and maybe the whole point is to just find someone whose baggage goes with yours.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>196</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Got you (Where I want you)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hey guys! This fic was started for Nanowrimo 2020 but I didn't quite make it to 50,000. I have wanted to write a fic like this for a long time. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. </p><p>First and foremost, this fic has GRAPHIC depictions of murder and violence. It also has talk of underage sexual abuse. Not too descriptive, but its there. So if you are easily triggered, this may not be the fic for you. </p><p>But as much as this is a serial killer Mickey fic, it's also a fic about falling in love for the first time and finding someone who GETS you, even when you think you'll never find someone who will. </p><p>Comments are LOVE.</p><p>And a big thanks to Erikutta for beta'ing for me. You are such a doll. :-*</p>
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</div><p>A sea of bodies in a kaleidoscope of colors slicing through the thick atmosphere of cigarette smoke, endorphins, testosterone and oxytocin. It sets my stage so well. I’ve never really ever been good at anything. But I’m good at this. I was taught at a young age to always be in tune with my surroundings. You never know who could be coming up behind you or to the side of you. I learned to carefully watch people. How they move. How they speak. Their mannerisms. It keeps me hidden in plain sight. It helps me at my job.  </p><p>It helps me kill. </p><p>It's how I know the blonde with his shaggy cut plastered against his sweaty forehead was slipped a roofie while he was waving his fruity drink around while he tried to grind against anyone in his vicinity. Because he’s stumbling now; swaying side to side and pressing himself up against a man, probably almost 3 times his age, who is smiling like the Cheshire cat at his victory. He thinks he’s won. He thinks he’s going to get away with it. I’m sure he has before. But he won’t tonight. He wasn’t expecting me to be here. They never are. But I’ve seen this piece of shit before. He gets the private dances in the backrooms and every single one of those kids walk out of that room a little more worn around the edges than when they went in, stuffing hundred-dollar bills deep into their gold shorts. He takes something from them in that back room.  </p><p>He’s not going to be taking anything, from anyone, anymore.  </p><p>I watch as the pedophile whispers something in the poor kid’s ear before manhandling him onto a barstool. The young man wobbles, barely able to keep his body upright and pedo disappears into the bathrooms. I tap my fellow bouncers' shoulder, once, and nod toward the kid. He follows me over to the bar and I fish into the teen’s ’s pocket for his wallet.  </p><p>“Get him a Lyft. Here’s his address.” I hand his license over to Rob. “Use my account. Get him home before he’s raped.” </p><p>Rob nods, picks the kid up over his shoulder and pushes his way through the grinding bodies to the front door of the club. I sit on the same barstool as the boy I just saved and wait. Pedo comes out minutes later, eyes focusing right on me and he’s frowning as he approaches me.  </p><p>“Where’s the kid that was just here?” he asks, annoyance in his voice. He has no idea how much I am going to enjoy killing him.  </p><p>I shrug and brush my finger down the expensive material of his button-down shirt. “Don’t know. But you didn’t want him.” </p><p>He licks his lips and watches my hand travel down to the waistband of his suit pants. He finally locks eyes with me, none of them can resist the blue, and he smiles, all yellowed teeth and gray stubble on his chin. If I didn’t know I was about to murder him, I’d let the shiver fall down my spine from his look, scare me. But I’m not scared of these assholes. Not anymore.  </p><p>“And what do I want, then?” he whispers, leaning in to sniff my neck. Fuck, I cannot wait to gut this perv.  </p><p>“My tight ass.” </p><p>He pulls back. “My car’s out front.” </p><p>“Lead the way.” I motion toward the front of the club but I know he’s waiting for me to move first so he can look at my ass. And that’s exactly what he does as I wave at Rob on my way out. Rob doesn’t suspect anything. He just thinks I’m a whore who enjoys old men. It doesn’t matter if he thinks that. It's easier if he thinks that. I come here, do my job, and leave. And it's not all the time. Only once a month. Rob has ribbed me about it before. Asking what I see in those ‘old pervs’. I just shrug and tell him everyone’s got a type. He leaves it alone. He’s not a bad guy. He doesn’t want these young kids getting hurt, just like me, which is why he helps me get them home safely. He once called me the ‘twink savior.’. Maybe I am. Maybe if I’m ever caught that’s what the newspapers will call me. They will take it from Rob’s statement when they interview him and he tells them what a normal nice guy I was. That he never suspected a thing.  </p><p>I slide into the passenger side of the perv’s sleek Mercedes and he rests his hand on my knee. “We can go back to my place.” </p><p>I shake my head. “My place is closer. Besides I don’t like fucking in a bed I know you fuck your wife in too.” </p><p>He looks taken aback and for a second I think maybe I’ve fucked up. Sometimes that line works, sometimes it doesn’t. I wrap my hand around the blade in my jacket pocket, as I watch the wheels turning behind his eyes. Then he smirks. Bingo.  </p><p>“Don’t wanna share, huh?” He slides his fingers delicately up my thigh and I give him a grin, that if he knew me better, only means one thing. I’m gonna gut this motherfucker.  </p><p>“Not tonight. Want you all to myself.” It’s not a lie.  </p><p>“Where to?”  </p><p>I give him the address and he keeps his hand on my thigh the entire drive there. I had lied. My place probably isn't closer than his, but he doesn’t say anything about it and it’s good because I’m not in the mood for playful banter. I’m not in the mood for any fucking banter tonight. I’m in the mood to watch this guy's inside spill out onto the floor.  </p><p>We pull up to the curb and he wrinkles his nose. “You live here? You poor thing.”  </p><p>See, this is another reason I hate these pervy fucks. Thinking because he’s got a flashy car and a nice watch on and he can stick 20’s down the dancers shorts, he thinks he can look down on people like me who grew up South Side. It’s why I take so much pleasure in this. Because he was born like anyone else in this world and he will die just like everyone else will. His will just be a little earlier than some and a little more gruesome.  </p><p>“It’s fine. Come on.” </p><p>The place is dark when we enter; just the light from above the stove in the kitchen casting shadows on the walls. “My room’s in the basement.” </p><p>“Jesus.” I watch as the old perv steps around shit strewn all over the floor and even though it’s dark, I can see him wrinkle his nose at the smell in the house. I never know what exactly that smell is, I don’t stay long enough to find out, but he follows behind me as I open the door and enter down the old wood stairs into the basement. I flick the light on, finally, when he hits the last step and his eyes adjust to the light as he looks around the room.  </p><p>“This is your room? Where’s the bed?” He looks confused. Not scared, not yet, just apprehensive. I’m used to this. This isn't new.  </p><p>“Don't need a bed.” I step closer to him and his expression waivers between flirty and confusion. Then he sees it. The table behind me. Wrapped in a tarp. The knives placed neatly on it, in size order. Then the panic washes over his eyes and he steps back, grabbing at the banister. He tries to turn but my knife is in his side before he can even take a step up. A haze of pain replaces the panic and he looks at me, mouth hanging open, a gurgling sound starting to escape his throat. His face asks me ‘why?’ </p><p>I always tell them. It’s the last thing they hear before I kill them. I always tell them the same thing.  </p><p>“You aren't going to touch us, any of us, ever again.”</p><p></p><div class="center">
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</div><p>I don’t think about it once it's done. I don’t keep any mementos. I don’t go back and sit where I disposed of the body. Just a sense of calm washes over me the next morning and for some reason, the world feels safer. It’s a fucked-up thing to think, considering I murdered someone, and even though I enjoy doing it, it's necessary. Because for all I know that guy, or any of them could have been a murderer. Taking those poor, drugged up kids somewhere to rape them, because that’s what it is, and either kill them by shoving coke up their nose or killing them in a more emotional way. A way I know a lot about. But I don’t think much about my reasons for doing it, other than getting these assholes off the street.  </p><p>I know I can't get them all. I know I can't save every kid on that platform shaking their ass because they don’t know what else to do with their life because the world is nasty bitch, and I try not to save the ones I know aren't drugged up and go home with those guys willingly. I can usually tell. I can tell which pervs are just that, pervs and which dancers and gay kids who walk into the club just trying to figure their shit out. I’m not perfect, and I’m not psychic, but I’ve been where they are. So, call it a six sense. Call it whatever you want. But I only go after the pieces of shit who I know only wanna hurt someone. So, I hurt them. Before they can do it to anyone else.  </p><p>I do think about it sometimes. If I got caught. If they would call me a serial killer. How many people you have to kill before you get that title. If I’d have a title. If people would see the good in what I did. These people’s families wouldn’t. Even if it came out what they had done. What they wanted to do. What I was saving even their families from. No, they’d never see the good in it. The rich are weak. Stupid. Blind. They relish on appearance. They don’t like to see the truth. I see the truth. I see the shit in this world. The way it eats us up and spits us out and just expects us to move on. The world is unforgiving.  </p><p>And so am I.  </p><p>The bell over the door jingles when I enter the store and I see the towel head behind the counter and nod at him. He knows me. I come in every afternoon before my shift. I get 2 red bulls and a pack of smokes. On the nights I’m off, it’s a six pack. He knows me. He doesn’t know my name, but he knows my face. And that’s fine. He has no reason to suspect. I’m nobody. Just a face he’s seen in this neighborhood practically forever. He’s seen me grow up. Before, I used to steal from him. He knows this too. But I pay for my shit now and we have an understanding. I may have bashed his face in when I was 17, but I’m not 17 anymore and under my father’s thumb.  </p><p>I slam the cooler door closed and a flash of red hair catches my eye. Normally I don’t look at anyone. I mean, I look, but I don’t look. Red is pressed up against the chip aisle and towel head is running his hand down his arm and giving him the look I’ve seen a hundred times. It’s none of my business. So, he’s a fag. I’m long past fag bashing. Kind of hypocritical, but it’s not him I’m focused on. It’s Red. He doesn’t look too into it. Well, fuck. Now I gotta deal with this? </p><p>I watch as towelhead whispers something in Red’s ear and his Adam apple bobs as he swallows down his nervousness and I feel something course through me. Like electricity. Anger. Humiliation for this red head. He didn’t need a savior. I don’t claim to be one. But he didn’t look too particularly thrilled that this guy was touching him. And neither was I. Red seems to be holding his own though and when he turns and his eyes lock with mine, he pushes towelhead back and ducks around the aisle into the next one.  </p><p>I pay for my drink and my cigarettes are already waiting for me on the counter. I try to keep my face neutral as I pay; my nerves and need to bash this fucker’s skull in are vibrating on my skin, and I may or may not have almost taken the door off the hinges as I exit. He probably didn’t even notice. He probably went right back to groping that guy in the aisle, maybe the bread aisle this time, and make a promise to myself, as I take the stairs up to the L, he won't be able to do that for much longer. </p><p>The problem with wanting to murder someone you know is a fucking piece of shit, molesting kids half their age, is that you have to wait to do it. I don’t kill every night. I can’t. I have a system. It’s articulate and carefully planned. It's what helps me not get caught. So, having to wait 3 weeks to take this fucker out had me so fucking tunnel visioned I almost didn't notice the redhead from the store in my club. But he noticed me. And it threw me. Guys look at me all the time. I’m a bouncer in a gay club for shit’s sake. But this guy. I don’t know if it's because I know what that towel head perv was doing to him or what. Maybe it was how red his hair looked under the strobe lights of the club. Maybe it was the way his body moved to the bass of the music. Maybe it was the way his mouth looked wrapped around the neck of his beer bottle.  </p><p>Maybe it's all of it.  </p><p>But I couldn’t let myself get deterred. I have to be in the right mindset before a kill. I can't be thinking about getting my dick sucked no matter how pretty his lips are. And I can't be thinking about getting it done from the guy I’m trying to protect. It doesn’t work that way. It can't work that way. The system. I have to follow the system. Just like how his eyes are following me through the club as I take my break and sit heavily at the bar and signal for a beer. How he follows me to the bar and sits gingerly, no pun intended, on the barstool next to me. Like how he follows my movements as he watches me sip my beer and try my darndest not to look at him.  </p><p>“I remember you.” </p><p>Don’t look at him. Don’t answer him. Ignore him.  </p><p>“In the Kash N Grab.” </p><p>Just drink your beer. Smoke your cigarette. Five more minutes on break. I can do this.  </p><p>“He gets a little handsy sometimes. I used to work there when I was a teenager. Used to fuck him. You know, before I knew better. Started picking up hours again. Thought we could pick up where we left off. Told him no, though. He still tries sometimes.” </p><p>I can feel my teeth grinding. When he was a teenager. This guy can't be any more than 21 years old. Teenager. So what? 16? 17? 15? To me, it doesn’t matter if he fucked him. That piece of shit was with a teenage boy. I’m gonna fucking love ripping this guy's insides out. Might even slice off his dick. That’ll make me feel better.  </p><p>“Disgusted, huh? Figured.”  </p><p>I finally look at him. I have to. He looks...sad. Disgusted in himself. Humiliated. I know that look. I still wear it sometimes when I’m alone. When I’m staring at myself in the mirror after a night of dreams that are more like nightmares that I wish I could scrub out of my brain. But I’ll never be that lucky. I can't get rid of them. But I can get rid of men like towel head.  </p><p>“I’m not disgusted.” </p><p>Our eyes meet and it's like all the air in the room is sucked out. It’s fucking corny and gay as fuck, but that’s exactly what happened. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t want it. I may be a murderer, but I’m also a 23-year-old gay man and I have eyes and this guy is hot. I never knew I had a thing for red heads, but I am an equal opportunity gay.  </p><p>“I’m Ian.” </p><p>“Mickey.” I finish my beer and slide off my barstool. “Breaks over.” </p><p>“Maybe I’ll see you around again.” He smiles at me and I swear I almost lose my balance. What the fuck was that? I don’t feel like this. I don’t let myself feel like this. I fuck and I’m done. I’m too complicated, too busy, to get involved in more than that. And this guy has ‘I wanna husband one day’ written all over his face. And I am not that guy. No matter how hot he is. I’m gonna take care of towelhead, he will be safe, and maybe give him some closure so he can find that husband one day. But it ain’t gonna be me.  </p><p>“Yeah, maybe.” </p><p>I don’t look back at him as I walk away.</p><p></p><div class="center">
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</div><p>Sometimes I plan a kill. Sometimes I have to wait for the right night to get it done. Sometimes a kill falls into my lap on the right night like that last piece of shit. Some months I don’t kill at all. It has to be right. It has to be perfect.  </p><p>And this one is going to be perfect. </p><p>If I had known this towel head was a god damn pedophile, I would have gotten rid of his ass years ago. He would have been my first kill, if I had known. But I can't dwell on that. I get to kill him now, before the next teenager comes to work for him and does to him what he did to Ian.  </p><p>Ian. </p><p>I may have been thinking about him. I may have jerked off to the memory of the way he danced. I may have imagined the way his long fingers would feel around my cock. Fantasized about his mouth on my skin. But it doesn’t mean anything. I fantasize about Ryan Reynolds too when I’m jerking off. That’s all it is.  </p><p>The store closes at 11pm. The lights are still on at midnight but the closed sign has been turned for nearly an hour. I know the towel head lives upstairs, alone. I know his wife took off with the kids years ago, it’s neighborhood news. Just never knew why. But I’d put money on the fact that she found out he was gay. Maybe even getting it from teenage boys. Maybe she even knew about Ian. </p><p>Ian. </p><p>No, focus.  </p><p>I pick the lock on the back door easily. When you grow up South Side you learn to do shit like that young. You also learn to hotwire a car. Like the one I’m driving tonight. I’ll have it re-parked before anyone even reports it stolen. If they even do. I don’t pick flashy cars. I pick shit mobiles no one will miss. I’m quiet when I enter. I can hear him stocking shelves and I’m quiet when I walk up behind him. He turns and sees me, dropping the box of apples onto the floor.  </p><p>“How did you get in here? We’re closed!” He knows me. It’s why he doesn't look too worried. But he should be.  </p><p>“How many?” I ask.  </p><p>He looks confused now. “How many what? What the hell are you talking about.” He steps back. I step forward.  </p><p>“How many?” I ask again.  </p><p>“Look man, I don’t know what you’re on or what you want-” </p><p>“I want to know how many kids you’ve fucked.” </p><p>“How...” He begins to confess but then quickly snaps his mouth shut and the color drains from his face. “Look I don’t know what you think you saw with Ian, but it isn't like that. I care about him. He cared about me, he’s an adult.” </p><p>“Was he an adult the first time he worked here?” </p><p>I shouldn’t be making this personal. I’ve already gone too far. This isn't about just one kid. This is about all of them. Because a piece of shit like this doesn’t just stop at one.  </p><p>“You don’t know what you’re talking about. He liked me. And I never did anything to him he didn’t want.” </p><p>“He was too young to know what he wants.” I say through gritted teeth.  </p><p>“I know what he wants.” Kash reaches for a bottle of vodka on the shelf and he swings but I dodge it and the knife goes into his stomach like butter. I feel the euphoria kick in. The calmness. I feel alive. Vindicated. Safe.  </p><p>Kash’s eyes widen as the pain surges through his body. He drops the bottle of vodka and it smashes at our feet. I wrap the flannel that is around my waist around my wrist and hand to keep the blood from dripping onto the floor. Let it look like a break in. No evidence. He just disappears.  </p><p>“Walk.” I demand and he stumbles into me as I drag him, shuffling backwards toward the door I came in.  </p><p>“Kash? Sorry for coming back so late but I forgot my phone. I-” </p><p>No. No. This cannot be happening.  </p><p>“What the fuck! What are you doing! Is he okay?”  </p><p>I look over my shoulder into green eyes.  </p><p>Ian.</p><p></p><div class="center">
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</div><p>I shove Kash’s body into the backseat of the car and close to the door to find Ian right on my heels. The fuck do I do now? Kill him? I can't do that. Yes, he’s seen too much but I have some sort of moral compass and I can't just kill an innocent guy. No matter what he’s seen. I light a cigarette and turn to look at him. His eyes are wide and his mouth is hanging open as he tries to look behind me into the back window of the car at Kash’s lifeless body.  </p><p>“You killed him.” </p><p>“Yup.” </p><p>“Were you robbing him?” </p><p>“Nope.” </p><p>“But you killed him.” </p><p>“That’s what I said.” I pause. “We gonna have a problem?” </p><p>“You think I’d snitch?” </p><p>I almost smirk. This guy’s got balls. “Just making sure.” </p><p>Ian crosses his arms and narrows his eyes at me. “Tell me why, though.” </p><p>I shrug. </p><p>“Gotta give me more than that.” </p><p>“Or what? You gonna run and tell the cops?” </p><p>“What if I did?” </p><p>“You won't.” </p><p>“Oh, really? And what makes you think that?” </p><p>Now I do smirk at him. “Cause you woulda done it already.” </p><p>He frowns and his arms fall at his sides. “He was my boss.” </p><p>“He was a fucking pedophile. You think you’re the first fucking kid he had in his pants?” I toss my cigarette onto the ground and start to try to walk around the car to the driver’s side but Ian grabs my arm. If I was smart, I’d punch him in his smug face and take off. But I ain’t been smart about anything tonight.  </p><p>“How do you know?” </p><p>“Because there’s never just one,” I say gently and wretch open the driver’s side door. I watch him in the rearview mirror until he becomes just a dot in the alleyway.</p><p></p><div class="center">
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</div><p>No one comes after me.  </p><p>Ian doesn’t tell. </p><p>I wait two days to walk past the Kash N’ Grab, but there is crime scene tape on the front door and it doesn’t look to be open. I almost feel bad Ian lost his job because of this whole thing, but that seemed to be least of his worries that night. It should be the least of my worries too.  </p><p>There’s an article about it online but because there was no blood and no security footage (why would that piece of shit have camera’s in his store when it could catch him fucking kids, right?) they don’t have much to go on. There is no word on the car I stole; putting it right back where I found it 3 hours later, so for now, I’m in the clear.  </p><p>Except for Ian.  </p><p>I can't stop thinking about him.  </p><p>I want to make myself believe it's because I still have a slight fear that he could turn me in. And yeah, sure, that’s part of it. But mostly it's because there was no fear on Ian’s face. He knew I killed Kash. His boss. A man he had had sex with. He saw me throw his body into that car like a dead animal on the side of the road. No remorse. No empathy. And he didn’t even blink. Somehow, he knew I wouldn’t hurt him. He wasn’t freaked out. He almost looked...curious. Intrigued.  </p><p>And fuck if I’m not too.  </p><p>I busy myself with work and finally after months of my bitch sister pestering me, I finally agree to go to lunch with her.  </p><p>She throws herself into the booth across from me, flipping her dyed blonde hair over her shoulder. She’s on her lunch break so she’s wearing a dress that actually fits her and it throws me off a bit. It was only a few years ago, her shorts were so short I could see her fucking cooch if she moved the right, or well in my opinion, wrong way. But now, she’s got a legit job and has her own apartment, and I feel like this insistent need to have lunch with me could only mean, she’s got a guy now too she wants to tell me about.  </p><p>“Hey, fuck face.” She smiles at me, and at least that’s the same. Her nose ring is gone and there are diamond studs in her ears where safety pins used to be. It reminds me how much things have changed for the both of us.  </p><p>“Fuck off, bitch.” </p><p>She giggles and opens her menu. She keeps peering at me over the large cumbersome plastic and I raise an eyebrow at her.  </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“You look...different.” </p><p>“Different? The fuck does that mean?” </p><p>“I don’t know. Not your usual “annoyed at the world” self.” She peers at me curiously then her eyes widen. “Did you meet someone?” </p><p>“What?”  </p><p>What. How does she do that? Fuck, I hate family.  </p><p>“You did! Tell me all about him.” She abandons her menu and leans across the table and I can see how her boobs are popping out of her dress and I guess some things never change.  </p><p>“There is no him. Just been working and trying to stay legit. Don’t wanna end up like Dad.” </p><p>“You mean murdered in jail? Yeah, how about you don’t do that?” </p><p>“Exactly.” </p><p>“Come on, Mick. You work at a gay club, you have to meet some people there.” </p><p>“You think I want to meet some twink dancing in gold shorts? No thanks, I’ll pass.” </p><p>“They can't be the only gay guys in that club.” She rolls her eyes and sips her water, giving me that look over the glass. That sister look. The look she’s been giving me my whole life when she knows I’m full of shit.  </p><p>“No one I’m interested in.” I lean back in the booth, laying my arm back along the top of it. “But I’d bet money there’s someone you wanna tell me about.” </p><p>Mandy rolls her eyes and picks her menu back up. “No one really worth mentioning. A few guys here and there. No one is sticking though.” </p><p>“Just don’t settle again. I don’t want to relive the Kenyatta incident.” </p><p>“Never gonna tell me where he’s buried, huh?” </p><p>I smirk. It’s the only thing Mandy knows about. It was the only way. And the only one she’d never judge me on. “Safer that way.” </p><p>She just shrugs and makes a small ‘hmm’ sound in the back of her throat. “I did reconnect with someone though. From our wayward southside youth. I don’t think you knew him though. But I think you and his brother were in the same grade. Well, at least when you went to school.” </p><p>“The fuck you yammering about?” I tend to tune Mandy out when she rambles. To be honest I don’t really care about half of what she tells me about, but she’s my sister and I love her, as much as I can love anyone, so I appease her with these lunches and pretend to pay attention as much as I can.  </p><p>“Saw an old friend again. I was his beard for a while.” She giggles to herself.  </p><p>“A fag in southside? Can't imagine why he’d need a beard.” </p><p>“You never had one.” </p><p>“The fuck you think Angie Zago was?” </p><p>Mandy gives me a full laugh on that one. When the waitress appears, she takes our order; turkey club and a water for her, cheeseburger and a coke for me, and once she’s gone, Mandy leans across the table again.  </p><p>“Anyway, it was great to see him. He kinda just disappeared for a while, but apparently he kinda went nuts, spent some time in a psych ward, but he’s finally getting his life back together. He looks good. Healthy. Been through some tough shit. Poor guy lost his job though. He worked at the Kash N Grab but since Kash like fucking just disappeared, he can't really work there if there is no one to run it. I heard he ran off with some dude. Can you believe it? Kash, gay? Who would have thought? I mean-” </p><p>“Wait.” </p><p>Mandy snaps her mouth shut at the strength in my voice.  </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“Who works at the Kash N Grab?” </p><p>“My friend. Haven't you been listening at all?” </p><p>“What friend?” </p><p>She gives me that look again and I pray the next words out of her mouth are not what I think they are going to be.  </p><p>“Ian. Ian Gallagher.”</p><p></p><div class="center">
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</div><p>Gallagher.  </p><p>I sort of remember him from the neighborhood. I faintly remember seeing him with Mandy. But most of my high school years are a haze of whiskey, weed, guns, unsatisfactory fucks with girls, drug runs, bloody knuckles and self-hatred. The guy I saw in the club and outside the Kash N Grab witnessing my crime is not at all who I remember sitting on the front porch with Mandy smoking cigarettes and giggling. That kid was tall and gangly with floppy bangs on his forehead and covered with so many freckles it almost made his face tan.  </p><p>But the guy I know now is still tall, but has grown into his long limbs and the freckles aren't hideous anymore but more...hot. The awkward red hair I remember is now styled and perfectly shaven on the sides and the way the lights from the club caught it that night. </p><p>This whole thing is very inconvenient. I don't have time for this. I don’t have the patience or the energy to deal not only with the fact that he saw me murder someone, but the growing need to know how his dick feels in my ass. I’m a 23-year-old gay man who just recently started to come to terms with the fact that I could now fuck whoever I wanted without consequence or fear of my homophobic Nazi father finding out, and yeah, you’d have to be blind not to find Gallagher attractive, but it’s a thought and a need I cannot have in my life right now.  </p><p>Cause tonight is kill night. It's been over a month since Kash and there’re  just so many gray pubes grinding on just out of puberty kids before my trigger hair releases. I’m on edge, for reasons other than Mr. Old Rolex grabbing one of the dancer’s asses which is obviously against the rules but no one seems to be paying much attention because he’s shoving 20’s in his gold shorts and into the bar tip jar. I fucking hate this place, but it pays my bills and it allows me to get out my anger on assholes who I get to throw out onto their asses until I can get my knife into one of them.  </p><p>I have my eye set on him; because just two nights ago Justin, the same dancer whose ass he can't seem to keep his hands off of, was telling me and Rob how he got a little too aggressive with him in the VIP room. Justin is one of our underage's, we don’t have as many as we used to, the guy who owns this club is as sleazy as they come but at least he’s not a pedo. So, my skin has been buzzing for days now, waiting till tonight; the night when I can get rid of this shit stain of a human once and for all.  </p><p>I get distracted for a few minutes bouncing an extra grabby drunk 30 something year old with a wedding ring on out on his ass. I’m downing my victory shot when I see a flash of red hair on the dance floor. I focus my eyes through the smoke and as I suspected, it’s Ian. But what I don’t expect, what makes my skin catch on fire, my blood turn ice cold and my hands fist at my sides, is Mr. Old Rolex, grabbing him by his thin hips and licking at his pale neck. My feet are faster than my brain and I’m almost to them on the dance floor before my rationalization catches up and I stop myself.  </p><p>The fuck am I doing? I can't let the fact that it’s Ian he’s latching himself onto deter me. Ian is an adult. Maybe he likes older men. Which is gross to me, but maybe he’s looking to be a sugar baby. Who the fuck am I to judge or give a shit? Cause I don’t. I don’t give a shit.  </p><p>But Ian is smiling at this guy, all teeth and wanton green eyes and for a split second I feel something in my chest I’ve never felt before. A feeling I never even thought I was capable of.  </p><p>Is this...jealousy? </p><p>No, it can't be. I don’t have those kinds of feelings. I don’t care enough, about anyone, to have those feelings. The only person I think I even love, if that’s even what that feeling is called, is my sister. But romantic love? Jealousy from caring about someone? I wouldn’t know that feeling if I was punched in the face with it. But fuck if I don’t feel like I was just punched in the face.  </p><p>Ian is giggling. He’s sliding his hand down this fucker's arm and Rolex is eating it up. Ian’s hips are moving to the music;,his denim covered cock rubbing against Rolex’s suit pants and if I were anymore animalistic right now, I’d go and pee all over Ian. I take a few deep breaths, reeling myself and these foreign feelings back in and bury them deep inside my chest and go back to my station at the front door where I can keep an eye on the whole crowd and not just fucking Ian and gray Rolex pubes.  </p><p>I throw two more drunks out before it hits 1:00 am. I’ve been here since 4:00 pm, so it’s Rob’s night to close. I plan it this way. I plan it so I can go home with my target and Rob thinks I just do it to get laid. No one asks questions. No one remembers one old dude from the next in this place. There are no cameras, because duh, and Rob is usually half drunk by the time I leave anyway. All I need to do now is figure out a way to get Rolex away from Ian and into my radar.  </p><p>I sit at the bar for almost 20 minutes and I watch as Ian gets sloppier on his feet and Rolex’s grip on him gets harder. It takes everything in me not to go over there, but I need to time this perfectly. I’m not gonna let some guy fuck this up. This guy needs to die and I’m not going to let anyone get in my way of that. But when Ian literally almost collapses on the floor at Rolex’s feet, I realize nothing about this night is going according to plan. Rolex picks him up, smiling like the piece of shit he is, because he thinks this will be easy for him tonight. Ian’s drunk and barely coherent. He thinks he’s going to get what he came here for.  </p><p>What he didn’t expect was me.  </p><p>I’m off the barstool before Rolex can even get Ian back on his feet.  </p><p>“Ay.” I slide up next to them and Rolex drags his eyes up and down my body. He knows I’m the bouncer. He thinks I’m gonna throw them out.  </p><p>“He’s fine. I’m gonna get him home.” </p><p>“It’ll be much more fun with two.” </p><p>His suspicious look slowly fades to curiosity and Ian is practically passed out against his body. “Think you can handle both of us?” </p><p>“I ain’t worried.” I flash him the smile that works every time and raise my eyebrow at him seductively. This isn't my first rodeo. I know how these fuckers think. I know what they want. I know what they think. I know all the fucked-up shit that goes on in their minds.  </p><p>“My car’s around the corner.” </p><p>“I got a place we can go. My place.” I lie. Rolex smiles and shuffles Ian in his arms and I slide my arm around his waist, allowing most of his weight to be transferred to me. I prefer it that way. I don’t want this asshole touching him anymore. </p><p>Where the hell did that come from? </p><p>We shuffle out the back of the club, into the back alley where Rolex’s BMW is parked, bright and shiny. The assholes thinking they are VIP and can just park wherever the fuck they want. I open the back door of his car and carefully place Ian into the backseat and he lies down, sprawled out like some drunk college girl in an Uber. He’s right behind me and I scan the alley quickly. Clear.  </p><p>“Can’t wait to get in both your asses.” Rolex rolls his hips against my ass and I shiver, but not for the reason he thinks I am. It’s disgust and memories coming up like vomit in my throat and I clutch the knife in my pocket and I turn and just like butter, it slides so perfectly into his abdomen.  </p><p>“You’re not touching him.” I growl in his face as his mouth opens in shock and where I can hear a possible scream start to escape his mouth. I twist the knife and his keys drop to the ground and I ease him forward, pulling him with me to the back of the car. I grab the keys up along the way and pop the trunk and it takes me seconds to get him shoved into it, knife still sticking out of his stomach and his once crisp white shirt already completely red.  </p><p>I slam the trunk shut and look around one more time to make sure no one saw and again all clear. I slide into the driver's seat, maybe stealing a peek at Ian still passed out along the back seat and take a long breath in. He’s safe. And so is Justin and anyone else this prick could have ever touched. I start the car and pull out onto the road on my way to the house. I need to be careful. Make sure I don’t bring any attention to myself in case a cop decides to target some guy driving a BMW that definitely looks like he should not be driving a BMW. This is the riskiest part. You’d think it would be the actual kill. The first stab of the knife. Making sure no one sees you. But the times I gotta kill before I make it to the house, that’s the risk.  </p><p>I’m five minutes out from the house, gliding nicely back into the South Side and in the clear. I light a cigarette and chuckle to myself. I feel calm. Almost happy. Another foreign feeling. But fuck, it's been a big night of firsts for me.  </p><p>I’m just about to turn onto the street where the house sits when I see a mop of red hair pop up from the backseat and I see a wide toothed smile in the rearview mirror. I swerve, almost hitting the curb and Ian leans his long body into the front from between the seats and I can feel his breath on my neck.  </p><p>I shiver.  </p><p>For all the right reasons this time.  </p><p>“So, what next?”</p><p></p><div class="center">
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</div><p>I shove the car into park and turn in my seat to look back at him, glaring. Ian just continues to smile and I realize that he wasn’t drunk at all. He was faking it. He planned this. This fucking guy.  </p><p>“The fuck you think you’re doing, huh? You trying to get me caught?” </p><p>“Pfft.” Ian rolls his eyes and taps his fingers on the leather seat wrapped around his hand. “If anything, I helped you. You were not that guy’s type. Trust me.” </p><p>“I’m everyone’s type.” I shove open the driver's side door and eye the dark house. All clear. The back door of the car hits me as Ian shoves it open and I growl low in my throat as Ian climbs out of the back, all long limbs like a spider trying to make their way out of a drain. It almost makes me smile.  </p><p>Almost.  </p><p>“Not that guy. But I can definitely see how you’re other guy’s type.”  </p><p>Is he flirting with me? </p><p>Jesus Christ. I do not have time for this shit right now.  </p><p>“Go home, Ian.” I click the trunk button on the key fob and walk around Ian to the back of the car.  </p><p>“Do you live here?” </p><p>“Stop asking so many fucking questions. Fuck.” </p><p>“I wanna help.” </p><p>I grip the lip of the trunk and my face betrays me as my mouth gapes open at his words.  </p><p>“Help? How the fuck are you gonna help? He’s already dead, genius.” </p><p>“Don’t you like cut them up or something? Throw their bodies in the river? Put them through a meat grinder? Set them on fire? </p><p>“Jesus, how much Forensic Files do you watch? Christ.” I open the trunk and Rolex’s dead eyes stare up at me. I don’t even notice that Ian is now standing beside me and I look at him to gage his reaction. There isn't one. He’s just staring, expressionless, into the trunk.  </p><p>“You should just go home. You shouldn’t be involved in this. I should never have let it get this far. I don’t even think I trust you.”  </p><p>“If I was going to rat you out, I’d have done it already.” </p><p>“Then what the fuck are you doing here?” </p><p>Ian shrugs and finally looks at me. His eyes look dark. His normal green eyes are almost black. “I’m curious.” </p><p>“About?” </p><p>“This. You.” </p><p>“What exactly about this? Me?” </p><p>Ian just shrugs again and leans into the trunk to grab Rolex’s arm.  </p><p>“WHOA. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” </p><p>“Helping.” </p><p>“You don’t get to help. Go the fuck home.” </p><p>“Come on, Mickey. This guy is a piece of shit. I know him. Well. Do you know how many kids he’s taken advantage of? I used to dance at that club long before you started working there. I know every asshole that’s been groped, molested and fucked against their will. Because I was one of them. Maybe some of it was my fault. I was taking every drug I could get my hands on. I just didn’t care. I was fucked up. But that doesn’t mean I wanted it. It doesn’t mean any of those guys want it.” </p><p>I just stare at him as he unleashes his demons out into the open air. Mandy’s words ring in my head. Psych ward. Gone through some shit. His face shows hints of regret and humiliation as he talks and I can feel my chest tighten at the realization of what he’s been through. That he gets it. Like I get it.  </p><p>It makes me feel a connection. Something I’ve never felt with another person. Sex is just a human need. Anyone can jerk a cock. I jerk mine. He jerks his. It's not a unique skill and I’m not some silly school girl who thinks that sex equals anything but a dick in an ass or mouth. I haven't even touched Ian, and I already feel closer to him than I have anyone. Mandy knows I’ve killed one person. Out of necessity. She doesn’t know about the others. How I crave it. How it’s vindicating for me. But Ian, he’s watched me kill two people already and he’s still here. Looking at me like it’s normal. Like I’m not some monster. He gets it.  </p><p>He gets me.  </p><p>“It wasn’t your fault.” I barely recognize my own voice. His eyes widen slightly and he gives me a small smile.  </p><p>“Thanks.” </p><p>“So, that why you’re here? Trying to right wrongs?” </p><p>“Isn't that why you’re here?” </p><p>It takes me a minute to answer. I have to think carefully about how I answer. He’s unloaded on me; his truth spewing out of his mouth like he’s telling me about the weather, but I’m not as transparent. I have walls. Thick, tall walls that I’ve had around myself my entire life. Walls that aren't meant to come down. No matter how much he may get it.  </p><p>“You could say that.” </p><p>He seems to accept that answer, reaching down into the trunk again and grabs Rolex under his armpits. “Grab his legs and lead the way.”</p><p></p><div class="center">
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</div><p>I look behind me to find Ian standing outside the garage, smoking a cigarette, balancing on the balls of his feet while he waits for me. A small smile forms on my lips.  </p><p>“New friend?” </p><p>I turn and glare at Jimmy as he counts the wad of bills, I just handed him. “Fuck off. He’s nobody.” </p><p>“Not looking at him like he’s nobody.” He pauses. “I know that kid. Used to date his sister a while back. Fuck, I loved her. Once you go Gallagher, there’s no going back.” </p><p>I roll my eyes and chuck the keys to the BMW at him. “Yeah, thanks for the advice.”  </p><p>I brush past Ian on the sidewalk and shuffle toward my apartment building. He follows behind me; his boots loud on the concrete behind me.  </p><p>“Who was that?” </p><p>“A friend.” </p><p>Ian chuckles. “You don’t seem like you have many friends.” </p><p>I smirk. “You’re not wrong.” I pause. “He’s a business associate.” </p><p>“He gets rid of the cars for you?” </p><p>“Jesus Christ, do you ever shut the fuck up?” I whirl around and Ian smashes into me. He’s warm, even though it's cool out. And he smells like wood and crisp air. Fuck. He doesn’t pull away immediately and I can feel his hand on my arm and his breath on my face. It’s almost 4:00 am in South Side, Chicago and here I am in the middle of the sidewalk doing God knows what with a guy I barely know, but already knows too much about me. If I was smart, I’d stop this right now. I’d tell him to fuck off. Maybe even find a way to get rid of him permanently. He knows too much. I’m too exposed. On so many levels.  </p><p>“I’m like a block away.” I push the words past my lips not understanding the point I’m making by telling him. I feel his fingers tighten around my arm and it’s tethering me to the earth. It's been a fucked-up night. Even I can admit that. It wasn’t a normal kill. Nothing about this is normal. How my heart feels like it's about to beat out of my chest. How I feel like if I just moved my head slightly to the right my lips would brush his. But my body is overruling my head right now. And my body wants.  </p><p>“I’ll sleep on the couch. I’m too tired to go all the way home right now. Just let me crash a few hours and then I’ll be out of your hair.” He’s whispering. Why, I don’t know. But I like it. I like the way his voice sounds in my ear. I like the way his tall frame feels against mine. And the idea of him in my apartment, in my space, in my life, should terrify me. But the truth is, it doesn’t.  </p><p>Because he gets me. In ways I never thought another person could. He doesn’t know me. Not really. But he knows the biggest thing, and he’s still here. Standing in front of me, gripping my arm like a life line and pushing his body against me like I’m the only thing he wants.  </p><p>And fuck I like it.  </p><p>“Okay,” I whisper back and I don’t know who I am in this moment. I’m not Mickey Milkovich, South Side trash. I’m not Mickey, bouncer at the fairy tale. I’m not Mickey Milkovich, Terry’s son. I’m not a serial killer.  </p><p>I’m just some guy, rubbing up against another guy on the street.  </p><p>And for the first time in my life, I’m okay with that.</p><p></p><div class="center">
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</div><p>Ian is touching every surface. Skimming his fingertips over the books on my shelves and the corner of my kitchen table. He even ran his hand along the back of my ratty couch when he first entered the apartment. It’s like he’s spreading his scent around. Marking this place. Marking me. I feel uncomfortable in my skin, like I’m 15 again and realizing I’m looking more at the dicks in porn than at the tits.  </p><p>The only light in the small space is coming from the lamp next to the couch and it’s casting shadows off his pale skin and I realize, maybe too late, that I’m staring. It’s the first time I’ve had him in any real light. No disco light or moonlight. That night at the Kash N Grab I didn’t get a chance to really take him in. And fuck, he’s beautiful.  </p><p>He catches me staring and he smiles at me, and it’s blinding. He’s so open. Open about his intentions and his past. I know I don’t know everything, but he’s shared things with me. And I guess I’ve shared my most important with him. But I know that isn't true. Yeah, he knows a lot. But he doesn’t know the root of it. He doesn't know my terrible story. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to tell him. Because I’ve never told anyone.  </p><p>“You gonna head to bed?” he asks, voice gentle but firm. I nod and he mirrors my movement and slides around the couch and flops down onto it. I know it’s uncomfortable. No one would willingly sleep on the thing. But he is. I can see the wheels moving behind his eyes. He’s hoping I’ll ask him to sleep in my bed with me. But I’m not ready for that. I need to keep my walls up, even just for a little while longer. I need to make sure. I can't get sloppy now.  </p><p>“You want a pillow?” </p><p>Ian shakes his head and pats the cushions on the couch. “I’ve slept in worse conditions.” </p><p>I feel that feeling in my chest again, the feeling that is foreign and new and confusing. “You don’t got to anymore, man.” </p><p>Ian’s expression is unreadable but he just kicks his boots off and leans back on the couch, picking up the remote off the coffee table. “I’ll keep it low. I need the noise to sleep.” </p><p>“It’s fine.” And it is.  </p><p>Our eyes battle for a few minutes, both of us at a standoff with the feeling in the air between us. Neither of us knowing what is happening. But it's something. You’d have to be blind not to see it. I finally turn and head to my bedroom, keeping my door open a crack. Just in case. Not in case he tries to murder me. Not in case he decides to steal what little I have in this shitty apartment. It’s in case...he decides the couch isn't up to par for him. Part of me wishes he will. But it's just not something I’m ready for yet.  </p><p>I lie in bed, listening to the soft hum of the TV in the other room and I can hear the creaking of the springs in the couch as Ian moves around. I’ve never had anyone in my apartment before. Not even Mandy. If I decide I want to fuck, it happens at their place or in the alley of the club. Or a bathroom. I don’t let anyone into my space.  </p><p>I’ve broken so many rules tonight. Rules that hold so much importance. Rules that run my entire world. But there is a red head on my couch right now and my entire world feels like it's completely flipped upside down.  </p><p>For a brief second, I wonder if I can have this. If I can have both. It's not something I ever considered before. I could never be with someone, longer than one night, with who I am. What I do. I can hide it from the outside world. From my co-workers. But from a boyfriend? Lover? Partner? It's not easy. But with Ian...he knows. He knows it all, and he accepts it. He encourages it. Maybe he is crazy. Maybe it's just a fascination. It probably is. Am I okay with that? Even if I end up with a friend I don’t have to hide from? What do I do with all that? </p><p>I fade into the sleep with Ian’s face in my mind; instead of the same face I’ve been seeing behind my eyes since I was 10.</p><p></p><div class="center">
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</div><p>The sun is high enough in the sky to know it must be afternoon. It’s bright and demanding through my window and when I check my phone it flashes 12:11pm at me. I groan, still feeling like I didn’t get enough sleep. I always make sure I am off the night after a kill so I can catch up on sleep and relax my body and mind. Make sure the news doesn’t show anything incriminating so if it does, I can put my plan into motion. I check my phone for local news and there is nothing. No reports on any old dude they can't find, nothing on his car. Jimmy always takes care of me. He doesn’t ask questions and I’ve never had a problem with a car I’ve given him.  </p><p>I hear a loud bang come from the kitchen and my heart jumps into my throat before I remember.  </p><p>Ian.  </p><p>I throw my legs over the side of the bed and shuffle barefoot into the heart of the apartment. And if I didn’t know I had a thing for Ian before, I definitely do now.  </p><p>Because he’s standing at the stove, cooking what I can tell from the smell must be eggs, t-shirt wrinkled and hair a mess on top of his head. He’s humming and dancing a little in bare feet and dark jeans. It shouldn’t feel so natural. It shouldn’t feel this good to see him here. But it does.  </p><p>“Hey.” </p><p>Ian looks up from the pan and smiles so brightly, I actually wince.  </p><p>“Hey! Uh, I made coffee.” He motions to the counter with the spatula. “And I’m making eggs. It's all you had.” </p><p>“I’m not home a lot.” </p><p>Ian just nods and turns the stove off, bringing the pan to the counter to scoop eggs onto two plates already set out. He’s cooking for me. He watched me murder someone last night, and he’s cooking for me. None of this feels real.  </p><p>“Thanks.” </p><p>I pour myself coffee, eyeing the already used and drank from cup on the counter next to the stove. Ian’s cup. It’s a red chipped one and I know, somehow, he picked that one because it was broken. He didn’t want to use something that I may like. Little does he know that is my favorite cup. But it's not worth talking about. He can drink out of that cup. There’s that feeling in my chest again and I have to swallow down a thousand words that are ready to spew from my mouth. </p><p>“Voila!” Ian beams and makes a little happy gesture over the plates and fuck if it doesn’t make me smile.  </p><p>“You didn’t need to cook for me. I’m a big boy.” </p><p>“You let me crash here. It’s the least I could do.” He pauses to shove eggs into his mouth, not bothering to swallow before he continues to talk. “I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I get some food in me. I need to eat with my meds.” </p><p>I grab my own plate and poke at the fluffy eggs. “You on a lot of shit?” </p><p>He shrugs. “Four pills a day. Not too bad. Was more. But I found a good combo.” </p><p>“What...uh...do you have?” Fuck. I close my eyes as the question comes out, ashamed. Another new feeling.  </p><p>It doesn’t faze him though. “Bipolar. Manic tendencies.” </p><p>I just nod, shoveling food into my mouth so I don’t say anything else stupid.  </p><p>“Does that bother you?” </p><p>I laugh, pieces of eggs falling out of my mouth and onto my shirt. I brush them off and give him a pointed look. “Does that bother me? Man, you watched me murder two people. And you're askin’ me if you popping a few pills for something you can't control, bothers me?” </p><p>He smiles around his bite of food. “Touche.” </p><p>We eat in silence, and when he’s done, he washes his plate and the chipped coffee cup and goes over to the couch to grab his boots. “Thanks again for letting me stay.” </p><p>“You got work or somethin’?” </p><p>He looks up from the couch as he shoves his socked feet into his boots. “I don’t have a job anymore, remember? My boss kinda disappeared.” His green eyes sparkle at that, like there’s a secret behind them. And there is. My secret. That he intends to keep. Which, I can't lie, it makes my dick hard.  </p><p>“I’m off tonight. You could uh...” I thumb my bottom lip, praying that he doesn’t make me finish that sentence because its awkward as fuck right now and I have no idea what I’m doing.  </p><p>He just smirks, shrugs and toes his boots back off. “Yeah. I can stay.” He settles back on the couch and picks up the remote on the cushion next to him. Like it's something he does every day. Like it’s normal. Like he’s comfortable.  </p><p>I stand there, like an idiot, for a good few minutes, just watching him as he clicks through channels, before he finally settles on an episode of Forensic Files. He turns to give me a pointed, cocky smirk and I roll my eyes before finally deciding to join him on the couch. Our knees hit when I sit down but neither of us acknowledge it. He just grabs the knit blanket off the back of the couch and lays it over his legs, pushing some my way in case I want any. He’s being gentle. Delicate. Wary.  </p><p>I grab the edge of the blanket and lay it over my legs too, and our thighs touch as we get situated and I feel a jolt go through my spine and straight to my dick. I’ve never spent this much time with another dude, other than my brothers or my co-workers. I’ve never even spent this much time with another dude when we’ve fucked. Ian seems so comfortable and I’m ready to jump out of my skin.  </p><p>We watch two full episodes, both of us commenting on how dumb the killers are and how they fucked up by leaving evidence and our eyes keep catching as we banter back and forth and tease each other on what the other would have done.  </p><p>“How about you leave killin’ to the experts, huh? I don’t tell you how to do cashier shit.” </p><p>He frowns visibly at me. “I’m actually taking classes to be an EMT.” </p><p>My face falls from the grin I had on at my teasing and I realize how bad I just fucked this up. I blink at him a few times, trying to figure out a way to apologize by not actually apologizing.  </p><p>Then he laughs. Clutching his stomach, leaning over his knees, belly laughing. “You should have seen your face!” He leans back, still giggling. “Don’t worry. You didn’t hurt my precious feelings.” </p><p>“You’re a dick,” I grumble and turn my attention back to the TV. He lets out a few more huffs of laughter before leaning over, his breath hot on my neck.  </p><p>“Don’t pout. I still like you.” </p><p>My eyes betray me by sliding shut at the heat of him so close to me. He keeps his mouth close to my neck. “Ian...” I warn.  </p><p>He pulls back slowly. “Don't worry. I won't try anything. I’ll wait.” </p><p>My eyes fly open and I look at him; his eyes focused on the TV. “Wait for what?” </p><p>He doesn’t look at me. His expression doesn’t change.  </p><p>“Until you’re ready.” </p><p>Well, fuck.</p><p></p><div class="center">
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</div><p>Due to circumstances beyond my control, I don’t get to kill on my normal schedule. My safe space is out of commission, I keep telling myself that’s the reason and not because more days than not, this redhead is camped out on my couch at all hours of the day and night.  </p><p>It’s been a little over a month and almost every time I’m home, Ian is sprawled out on my couch watching TV and eating my food. Or his EMT books are spread out over my kitchen table as he chews on the end of a pen and scribbles notes into a notebook. I know a little,  he lives in a house in South Side with most of his siblings; and I think he comes here because it’s quiet and it’s a safe space for him. It’s not like he exactly asks me if he can spend all his time here. He just does it.  </p><p>But it's not like I’ve told him to leave. I don’t even really recognize myself anymore. I’ve become this person who actually likes another person and feels comfort in the fact that they are around. All the time. It’s unnerving.  </p><p>Some nights when I leave for work and he’s taking up space in my apartment, he gives me this look as to say ‘tonight?’ but I always shake my head. Like I said, it's been over a month. And usually by this point my skin is on fire and I can't seem to catch my breath. The need to kill one of these fuckers spreads through my veins and I can't focus on anything else until I do. But I haven't felt that way since I met Ian. I still eye the crowd every night searching for my next victim. I have a few in mind, calculating when, where and how I can take them out, but I haven't been actively searching. Even Rob, the only person I really talk to at work, notices a change in me.  </p><p>“Haven't been getting your dick sucked by old men lately, Milkovich. You finally settle down?” </p><p>I glare at him and suck hard on the end of my cigarette. “Something like that.” </p><p>“Well, good for you. You pick those gray pubes out of your teeth.” </p><p>I shove my elbow into his side, harder than I mean to, and he doubles over in pain and laughter.  </p><p>It’s nearly 3:00 AM by the time I get home and the first thing I notice is that Ian isn't on the couch when I enter. All the lights are out in the apartment except for the small light over the stove and the place is quiet. I drop my keys and wallet on the counter and grab a beer before heading down the hallway to my room. Maybe Ian finally decided to grace his own house with his presence. I kick the bedroom door open with my boot and find, legs and arms kicked out in every direction right in the center of my bed, is Ian.  </p><p>I stop in my tracks and stare at the long body on my bed. Putting his scent all over my sheets. His feet are bare and his shirt is bunched up, showing off the pale freckled skin on his lower back. His hair looks an even darker red on my dark blue sheets and I’m not sure I have ever seen anything so beautiful.  </p><p>I’ve been with a lot of men. Some short, some tall. Blonde hair, brown hair, no hair. I’ve never really had a preference as long as they had a dick. I’ve fucked women in my wayward youth, mostly to keep up appearances, not finally admitting and accepting what I really was until I knew my dad was long past forgotten and gone in prison. I went on a bit of a slutty spree after that and it’s a miracle I didn't end up with some STD with how much I fucked around. I tried things I didn't even know if I’d like just so I could keep telling my father, fuck you, in my head as I did them. </p><p>But I’ve never once looked at a man and felt anything deep in my chest like I do when I look at Ian. He’s obnoxious and loud and never shuts the fuck up. He asks too many questions, but never pushes and seems to know, somehow, in only a month's time, what buttons he shouldn’t push. I’ve slowly been asking my own questions, but not really having to, as Ian just spews information out of his mouth like a faucet. Things about himself, his family, the world. Things he read online, things he saw in the neighborhood, on TV. He just keeps talking, all the time, and I wonder if he does it so much because I listen. I wonder if maybe I’m the first person to ever really listen to him.  </p><p>I see the pills he takes. I don’t push or pry or ask too many questions about that, but I know he needs to take them with food, so even if it’s toast, I make sure he has it in the mornings. It's become all so very domestic, and now he’s sleeping in my bed and that uncontrollable want is back.  I want to push his shirt up further and feel his skin on my fingertips. I want to run those same fingers through his hair. I want those long legs wrapped around me and his arms curled around my waist. I want things I never thought I would. </p><p>I take off my boots and set my beer down on the side table next to the bed and kneel down next to him. He stirs, smacks his lips together a few times and his eyes flutter open. They look so green in the small amount of light coming in from the moon and streetlights.  </p><p>“Hey,” he whispers, his voice rough with sleep.  </p><p>“You’re in my bed.” </p><p>He picks his head up and looks around. “Oh, sorry. It just looked so inviting. My back is starting to hurt from the couch.” </p><p>“You could always go sleep in your own bed. At home.” </p><p>He blinks a few times and slowly nods. “Right. You’re right. I just kinda invited myself to practically move in. You’re being nice. I can go.” He pushes himself up onto his hands and knees and my mind short circuits for a second with him in that position. He moves around me and I shuffle so I am now sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him move around my room, trying to find his shoes.  </p><p>“Do you wanna go?” I ask quietly. He looks over his shoulder at me, taking a few seconds to fully turn around.  </p><p>“No. But I’m pushing. And I tend to do that. And I don’t want to do that with you.” </p><p>“Why?” </p><p>“Why, what?” </p><p>“Why don’t you want to do that with me?” </p><p>He cocks his head to the side, like he’s thinking. “Because you’re different.” </p><p>I snort at the answer and scratch at the scar above my eye. “That’s an understatement, man.” </p><p>“No.” He smiles. “That’s not what I meant. I meant, you’re different for me. How I feel about you. I tend to jump into shit, heart first, and I’m trying to make better choices. For me and other people.” </p><p>“I kill people, Ian. I don’t think that’s a great choice for you. Even as simple as a friend.” </p><p>Ian considers that for a second. But then he’s moving toward me, falling to his knees so he’s eye level with me. He sits back on his heels, making sure to give me my space and not touch me. Always considerate. Never overstepping. He thinks he’s pushing. The scary part is, I wish he’d push more.  </p><p>“You get rid of horrible people. People who molest and rape and take advantage of boys and men who either don’t know any better or don’t know what’s happening at all. I was one of them. Yes, I made a lot of decisions that led me to those consequences, and it's taken me a long time to realize and accept that. But I refuse to accept that I deserved anything those men did to me. I don’t know why you do it. Honestly, it doesn’t matter why you do. But I guess, in a fucked-up way, I’m grateful. Those men don’t get to do that to anyone like me ever again.” </p><p>I stare at him as he speaks. Taking every word into my head and locking them away in a special box so I can take them out and repeat them to myself when I’m shoving knives in these assholes. He gets it. He gets me. He understands.  </p><p>Grateful.  </p><p>No one else would see it like that. Not even Mandy. </p><p>“There is a reason.” I whisper.  </p><p>“I figured there was.” He gives me a reassuring smile. “You don’t have to tell me.” </p><p>“Never told anyone.” </p><p>“That’s okay.” </p><p>We hold each other's eyes for a long time. Just taking each other in. What’s been said. What the other is feeling. The electricity in the air.  </p><p>“I can't trust anyone.” I finally admit.  </p><p>“I get that.” </p><p>“I trust you.” </p><p>His breath hitches and he moves like he’s going to reach out to me, but then stops himself. So considerate. So careful.  </p><p>“I’m not perfect. The meds don’t work all the time. I’m impulsive. Reckless. I’m sad, most of the time. But, with you...I don’t know. I don’t feel so sad.” </p><p>“Don't want you to be perfect. But I’m fucked up, Ian. Really fucked up.” </p><p>“So am I.” </p><p>“You don’t kill people. You’re not a serial killer.” </p><p>“I don’t think that about you. I don’t like that term for you.” </p><p>“It’s what they will call me.” </p><p>His forehead creases with confusion. “They?” </p><p>“When I’m caught. It’s what they will label me. Police. Newspaper. Fuck heads from the neighborhood.” </p><p>“You plannin’ on getting caught?” </p><p>“Only a matter of time, Red.” </p><p>Ian shakes his head. “I won't let that happen. You have work to do.” </p><p>“This ain’t some superhero movie. I’m no hero.” </p><p>He shuffles closer to me and my legs fall open so he can kneel between them. He places his hands on either side of my thighs on the bed, still no part of his body touching mine.  </p><p>“You are to me.” </p><p>My eyes slide shut at his words and the soft tone of his voice. I want to believe him. I want to believe I’m not a monster. I want to believe I’m not damaged beyond repair. I’ve always understood why I did it, knowing no one else ever would. But Ian understands why. Because he’s lived it. Just like I have.  </p><p>“Stay,” I whisper. He nods, standing and shoving his shoes off again.  </p><p>“Can I sleep in the bed with you?” </p><p>I nod and push myself back onto the bed, lying down close to the wall, giving him room. His own side. His own space. In my world.  </p><p>He lies down next to me, facing me, holding his hands under his face as we stare at each other. My hand lays on the sheets between us and I keep gripping the material into my fingers to keep myself from touching him. We still aren't touching; our legs bent so now even our feet touch. I might need to get a bigger bed if this is going to become a regular thing. Or maybe not. I like being this close to him, it’s a scary thought to have.  </p><p>“I like your eyes,” he tells me. I can see his fingers clenching under his face and I know he wants to touch me too. I’d let him. I think I’d let him do anything.  </p><p>“Yours too. And the freckles,” I clear my throat.,“they’re...hot.” </p><p>He chuckles softly and finally moves his hand from underneath his head. He reaches out so slowly and runs his fingertip along my forehead, down my cheek, until it brushes across my lower lip. My body betrays me and I moan, so gently. I can hear his breath growing more uneven as he keeps tracing my features with his finger, like he’s mapping out my face. I never take my eyes off him. He keeps flicking his eyes from the movements of his finger, back to my eyes. I can feel the flush in my cheeks from the intensity of his stare and my cock is growing fatter in my jeans.  </p><p>“Get some sleep,” he tells me and I swallow, nodding. Nothing is going to happen tonight. I wonder if even Ian is ready for any of that. But he knows I’m not. Because we both know it won't be just sex. I’m ready to cum in my pants right now and he’s only touching my face. He settles his head on the pillow and my eyes slide shut slowly at the feeling and comfort of him next to me.  </p><p>The last thing I remember, before falling asleep, are his fingers intertwining in mine on the bed between us.</p><p></p><div class="center">
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</div><p>The next month of whatever the fuck it is between Ian and I, is spent watching movies, Ian doing his school work at my table, cooking, ordering take out, taking walks, because apparently, I’m someone who does that now, and working. Ian got a job as a waiter at the diner his sister owns and he doesn’t work a lot, but he tries to work at night so he’s not ‘apart from me too long’ which sounds way too much like a relationship, but I don’t give him any shit for it.  </p><p>We hold hands. A lot. And some nights, when he isn't working, he comes to the club and dances and drinks at the bar. We spend my breaks together, eyeing potential victims from the barstools and sometimes he even lets himself dance up close to one of them, gauging them. He has his eye on one; someone he’s seen before. Someone he knows. Someone he knows has fucked him. Without his consent.  </p><p>“His name is William.” </p><p>I look up from the kitchen sink where I’m washing our dishes from dinner and he’s scribbling notes about the right dose of adrenaline to give someone during a time of crisis. He doesn’t look at me. He knows I will know what he’s talking about. I also know he doesn’t want to look at me because I’ll see the shame in his eyes. Shame because he knows his name. Shame because of the reasons he knows his name. What he can't see, because he won’t look at me, is that I’m looking at him like he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen and he has nothing to be ashamed about. It’s the same way he looks at me when he thinks I don’t see.  </p><p>“Alright.” Is all I answer.  </p><p>We leave it at that. </p><p>When I get the word that my safe house will be clear in 3 more nights, I set my schedule up the exact way I need it to be at the club and I can feel Ian tracing his fingers over the lines of my palm as he lies next to me in what has become our bed. There is more of his stuff here at my place than his childhood home now and sometimes I get our socks mixed up, but it doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it should or I thought it would. </p><p>"Wednesday night.” Is all I tell him.  </p><p>His hand stills over mine. I squeeze his fingers in my palm.  </p><p>“Do you need me?” </p><p>“Thought you might want to be there for it.” </p><p>His body trembles next to me. I squeeze his hand harder. To ground him. To tell him it's his decision. I won't judge either way.  </p><p>“Okay,” he whispers.  </p><p>I may hold him that night, spooning his tall frame instead of him pulling my back against his chest.  </p><p>When he walks into the club that night, he doesn’t even look at me. His professionalism astounds me sometimes. I do my best not to look at him all night. But it's hard because the lights keep catching his hair and he moves around the club like he’s a force to be reckoned with. He dances with a lot of men that night, but I notice he is careful about how much he is drinking. Just enough to make it look like he’s enjoying himself, but I know he’s pacing himself. Not only because of his medication, but also to make sure he doesn't lose his senses. He’s a professional. I didn’t even need to groom him.  </p><p>It's almost as though his demons bloomed and made him into this.  </p><p>It’s what mine did.  </p><p>On my last break of the night, I finally see William has taken the bait. He’s brushing his fingers all over the features on Ian’s face and I grip my beer tighter so I don’t do something stupid. I know why Ian is doing this. I know the reasons. I’m the reason. I know what he wants. What he needs.  </p><p>Me.  </p><p>This. </p><p>Retribution.  </p><p>Revenge. </p><p>Release.  </p><p>Truth.  </p><p>Ian is starting to sway on his feet, as if on cue once 2:00 AM rolls around and it's time for me to leave. Rob catches me looking around for a fuck; he knows I am off tomorrow and even though it should scare me that he knows me so well, at least in this aspect it doesn’t. The guy is nice enough but as dumb as a box of rocks and barely remembers what he ate for dinner let alone who I walk out of here with.  </p><p>I reign my eyes in on William, holding an almost limp Ian against his body. Go time. </p><p>“Looks like you got a live one with this one.” I say sweetly as I come up beside him. William gives me a once over.  </p><p>“He’s had a bit too much to drink. Need to get him home before someone takes advantage of him.” </p><p>Jesus Christ, I cannot wait to get my knife in this fuck.  </p><p>“Need some help?” I raise my eyebrow at him and wait. William’s wheels are turning.  </p><p>“Think I can't manage a drunk twink on my own?” </p><p>I shrug. “He looks heavy. And besides. Two is fun but three is a party.” </p><p>William rakes his eyes over my entire body now, stepping back a little to make sure he likes what he sees. I’m not everyone’s type, I may have lied to Ian about that, I don’t actually believe that. But I know my eyes are something guys are into and I know what my ass looks like. I’ve been told many times by many men, and you kinda start to believe that shit after a while.  </p><p>“I’m always down for a party,” he finally answers. Ian is dead weight against him now and I move to wrap my arm around his waist.  </p><p>“I got coke at my place,” I whisper just loud enough for William to hear.  </p><p>“My cars out back.”  </p><p>I nod and shuffled Ian with the help of William out through the back of the club. I give Ian one tight squeeze of my fingertips on his ribs so he knows I got him. That I won’t let him get hurt. That he’s okay. I can hear Ian’s quick uptake of breath, but William doesn’t notice. The music is too loud as we shuffle past the DJ and he also doesn’t know Ian like I do. He doesn’t know the sounds Ian makes in his sleep and the small noises he makes when our fingers touch. Those things are mine. I won't let this fucker have them.  </p><p>We get Ian into the back of his Audi, and it's like clockwork the way his hand rests on my thigh the entire drive into South Side. They are all the same. Every single one of these old fucks. They think with their expensive cars and three figure salaries they can have whatever the fuck they want. They go for the young ones, not just because they’re sick assholes, but because he knows most of these kids are weak. Broken. Doing anything they can to survive. Just like Ian.  </p><p>I glance back at him sprawled out in the back seat and William catches my eye. “He won't be too much fun tonight it seems. But if we can get a line in him, he might perk up. It’s worked before. Just not sure whose ass I wanna be in first.” </p><p>Ian was right. This one is a special kind of monster. He’s done this to Ian. He’s done this to others.  </p><p>But not anymore. Not after tonight. This one I am going to enjoy more than anyone else.  </p><p>We pull up to the dark house and he eyes it. “Really slumming it, huh?” </p><p>God, I want to break this guy's face. Entitled piece of shit.  </p><p>“Does it matter?” I bite back, maybe a bit too harshly. </p><p>“Not at all. As long as there is a bed. Or a couch. Wherever I can lay you both out.” </p><p>I give him a small smile. “I’ll grab the redhead.” </p><p>We get inside a little less quickly than my liking, but it’s South Side and people aren't really the nosy neighbor types. I figure there is probably something way worse going on in the house next door.  </p><p>“My room’s in the basement. More privacy,” I tell William as we enter the house, Ian still folded against me, as I lock the door.  </p><p>“How many people live here?” William asks, looking around the darkened house.  </p><p>“Number changes a lot.” And it's not a lie. “Door is through the kitchen.” </p><p>I drag Ian with me as William goes down into the basement first. I lock the that door behind me too and Ian is really giving the performance of his life because he’s like a bag of bricks against my short frame. But I have to hand it to him, he goes all in.  </p><p>William makes it to the bottom of the stairs in the dark and when my hand flicks on the light, I wait until it registers. He has his back to us, Ian’s charade over now and him standing upright next to me. I reach into my coat pocket for the knife and gently wrap his own fingers around it. Tonight is for him. He gets to make the first cut. He deserves that right.  </p><p>William finally turns around, that look of confusion on his face that just fuels my adrenaline through my bloodstream. I think of all the looks of confusion that must have been on those kids faces when they realize how overpowered they were. The fear. The sadness. </p><p>The look Ian must have had.  </p><p>“You...” He looks between me and Ian. “What’s going on here? This some sort of joke? You guys get off on teasing men? I don’t like to play games.” </p><p>“But you do, William. I know you remember.” Ian’s voice is cracking but he’s remaining calm. Fuck, I could fall in love with this fucker, I’m so proud.  </p><p>“What are you talking about?” William steps back from the venom in Ian’s words.  </p><p>“You remember. ‘Aw come on, Red. One more line. It’ll make it that more intense. Come on, Red. Open up for me. Don’t scream. Don’t make me gag you.’” Ian steps closer and he’s white knuckling the knife. William’s eyes are wide now with the realization of what is about to happen.  </p><p>“Come on, we were only having fun! I paid you! We both got what we wanted.” </p><p>“You paid the club for a private dance. I got paid half of that for it. I didn't get paid for you to rape me.” </p><p>William sputters but before he can move again, Ian lunges and jams the knife deep into his stomach. The blood spurts around his hand and the look of relief on Ian’s face makes me smile so wide, it actually hurts my cheeks.  </p><p>“You don’t get to do that to me or anyone else again.” Ian pushes the knife in further and William is screaming now but I know no one will hear him. Ian looks back at me and sees me smiling.  </p><p>“Get him on the table,” I tell him. My voice is rough and dark and I don’t think I have ever been so turned on in my life.  </p><p>Ian manhandles a flailing William onto the metal table in the middle of the room with a bit of my help and once he’s laid out, I attach the straps to his wrists and ankles. He’s bleeding pretty bad. It’s Ian’s first. He doesn't know the right parts of the abdomen to get so it’s a deep wound but not enough to spurt like that. It's fine. I can deal with it.  </p><p>“Not so great when you’re the one unable to fight back, is it William?” I whisper in his ear as I grab the butcher knife from the table.  </p><p>“I’m s-sorry. I won't...I won't touch anyone else. I promise. I have kids. A wife...” There is blood pooling inside his mouth now and I just shake my head.  </p><p>“Of course, you do. You all do.” I slide the blade along his neck, hard, but enough to cut. “They won't miss you. I bet you’re just as awful to them as you are to everyone else. This world won't miss you.”  </p><p>“Don’t do this. You don’t need to do this!” William screams.  </p><p>My eyes lock on Ian’s wild ones and his chest is heaving and his mouth is open with his ragged breathing and I just smile at him.  </p><p>“We do.” I slice the blade along his neck from right to left and his blood spurts everywhere and it lands on my face but I don’t care. Ian and I are both laughing and it’s the last thing William hears before he takes his last breath.</p><p></p><div class="center">
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</div><p>It’s nearly 6:00 AM before we make it back to my apartment. We get the Audi to Jimmy and we are both dead on our feet by the time the key goes in my door. We changed at the house, can't really drop off a stolen car in bloody clothes. Jimmy doesn't ask questions, but the least amount of attention the better.  </p><p>Ian shoves his shoes somewhere near the front door and is yawning as he trudges toward the bedroom. I’m frozen near the door, my keys still clutched in my hand. I’m exhausted. I know that. I feel it. Ian is exhausted. But my blood is hot, it always is after. But I know this feeling, this buzzing, this rapid flow of blood inside me, is something different.  </p><p>Ian is down to his boxers and t-shirt by the time I make it to the bedroom. He’s shoving his pills into his mouth and swallowing them dry and he looks up at me from the edge of the bed and gives me a confused look. </p><p>“You okay?” He takes his socks off, dropping them on the floor, but never takes his eyes off me.  </p><p>“Ian.” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>I can’t control my breathing.  </p><p>I want him.  </p><p>I need him. </p><p>I can't wait anymore.  </p><p>It takes him about 45 seconds before he finally realizes what’s happening. His eyes widen and he licks his bottom lip and then moves back onto the bed and lies down on his back. He spreads his legs, a clear invitation so I know that he wants this as much as I do. He keeps his eyes on me, never wavering. Waiting. He’s been waiting this whole time. Never getting tired of my indecisiveness. For my walls to slowly come down. For me to be sure. For me to trust. </p><p>He earned my trust tonight. My respect. My walls are crumbled now. I have nothing left to fight.  </p><p>“Mickey,” he whispers.  </p><p>He wants me. </p><p>He needs me.  </p><p>I just need to move and we can both have and want what we need. </p><p>But I know once I do everything will change. I’ll lose myself even more than I already have.  </p><p>“We don’t need to do anything. Just please come lay with me.” He pats the bed next to him.  </p><p>“I want to do everything.” It’s the most honest I’ve been in my entire life.  </p><p>“C’mere.” </p><p>I slide my eyes shut at the sexiness in his voice. I don't know how long my eyes stay closed but when I feel his fingers graze my hand, I wrap my own around his wrist and allow myself to be pulled onto the bed. I fall on top of him and his hands are on my face and I feel his breath on my lips and all I need to lean forward. Why is this so hard? Why can't I just give into this? </p><p>“I won’t hurt you,” I hear him whisper. “I won't. I’m here. I want to be here. I want to be here with you. You know how I feel.” His thumb brushes over my bottom lip. I feel exposed. More than I ever have. “I just don’t know how you feel.” </p><p>I shake my head a little. Words aren't my strong suit. But he deserves them. He deserves so much.  </p><p>“You scare me.” </p><p>I open my eyes and his are wide and confused. It’s a weird thing to say. To admit. I do so many dangerous things. He probably thinks I’m not scared of anything. But that’s the furthest thing from the truth. I’ve never been more terrified in my life.  </p><p>“I don’t let myself get close. There is so much you don’t know. I can't let myself get unfocused. I can't lose myself in someone.” </p><p>“We don’t have to do this. I won't turn you in or give you an ultimatum. If this isn't what you want, I can go. No questions. I don’t want to, but I will.” </p><p>“That’s what scares me.” I swallow hard and keep looking into his eyes, the feeling of his fingers on my face. It’s grounding me. “You leaving.” </p><p>“I won't. I won't, Mickey. I promise. I see you. I see it all and I want it. I’m all in. I trust you. Do you trust me?” </p><p>“Yes.” I don’t hesitate. Because it's the truth.  </p><p>“Mickey...I...” </p><p>“Don't.” </p><p>His mouth snaps shut. It's too much to hear. I feel it, of course I feel it.  </p><p>“What do you want?” </p><p>I press my forehead, hard, against his. His head melts deeper into the pillow underneath him. His lips are ghosting over mine. If I move one centimeter closer, it’ll be over. And it will begin.  </p><p>“You.” My mouth opens against his and I feel his tongue even before I feel his lips. It's hot and wet against mine and he’s making these little moaning sounds in the back of his throat and his fingertips are digging into my face and I wind my hands around the back of his neck and his hair is so soft there and I’m falling. I’m drowning in him.  </p><p>His legs spread again and I fit so perfectly between them. I can feel him through the thin fabric of his boxers and even though I still have my jeans on I know he can feel me too. I pull my hands away from the back of his head and run my hands down his sides. I bunch up his t-shirt and his skin is soft and firm under my palms. He shudders at my touch and he slides his hands down my back, gripping at the material of my shirt. We keep rutting against each other as our mouths battle for control. What started at a heated but hesitant kiss has now grown heated and clumsy and he’s trying to push my jeans down my hips without undoing them and I laugh against his mouth as I try to get between our intertwined bodies to unzip myself.  </p><p>He smiles against my mouth and it feels good. This feels right. I’m happy. It's such an odd feeling. I get my jeans down over my thighs and before I can even kick them off my feet, Ian’s hands are gripping my thighs and moaning against my mouth.  </p><p>“Fuck. I love these. Drive me fucking crazy.” </p><p>“Oh, yeah?” I bite at his lower lip and he pushes his hips up into mine, my bare cock rubbing against his leaking in his boxers. “Get these off.” I push at them and he lifts so I can get my fingers in the waistband and we both work to get his boxers down. When his cock springs free I literally groan at the sight of it. He’s huge. Long and just thick enough to make my mouth water at the thought of getting my mouth on him. He fishes his hand between us and wraps his long fingers around my dick.  </p><p>“Fuck,” he breathes out. “You’re so thick.” I know I am. I’m not as long as Ian; he’s got at least 3 inches on me; but yeah. I’m thick. He can barely get his fingers to touch around my girth. His thumb brushes against my tip, gathering the wetness there and when he brings it up to his mouth, I watch as his tongue laps at the taste of myself. “Mmm.” </p><p>I chase the taste with my mouth and tongue and he lets go of my cock to wrap his arms around my body to bring myself flush against him. I feel his defined abs on my chest and stomach and our cocks are pressed together in a perfect pressure and it’s sliding our precum around, up and down. It feels perfect. Like this is what things are supposed to feel like. Not hurried fucks and blowjobs in an alley. This is intimacy. This is trust. Affection.  </p><p>Love.  </p><p>I move down his body, pushing his shirt up his chest so I can mouth at the skin on his stomach. He grips my hair as I work my lips and mouth all over him, licking long lines over the V of his hip bones. The closer my mouth gets to his cock, the more rapid and deep his breathing gets. He keeps pushing his hips up toward my mouth, pleading with his body for me to wrap my mouth around him. But I want to take my time. I’ve waited a long time for this. Maybe my whole life. To feel this. To enjoy this.  </p><p>To finally have this for myself.  </p><p>When I finally get my lips wrapped around his cock, Ian hisses through his teeth and gives my hair a hard tug. I moan around him, letting my tongue extend and slide on the underside of his dick. I can feel his cock pulse in my mouth; long and extending my cheeks out. I slide down as far as I can go, until it hits the back of my throat and I gag a little, not used to giving head or having someone so big. He gives me a soft ‘shh’ above him and he caresses my face in such a careful way. I’m not used to touches like this. I wince at the touch and he just shushes me more, coaxing me to continue on his cock. </p><p>I swirl my tongue around his tip, tasting him like he tasted me. He’s so wet, the actions of my mouth making him leak and spurt little drops onto my tongue. I look up at him, taking him by the base and slapping him against my outstretched tongue. His eyes darken and he bites his lower lip, sliding his hand back up into my hair and tugging. I lean down, taking his sac into my mouth and sucking hard as I stroke him up and down. He’s cursing and bucking his hips and I spread my other hand out across his abs to keep him still. His hand immediately intertwines in mine as I work his balls and cock with my tongue.  </p><p>He gives my hair a rough tug and I pop off his cock as he pulls me up to him by my hair and then the back of my neck. He attacks my mouth; chasing the taste of himself on my tongue. His cock is soaking wet against mine and he grabs me by my hips and flips us over and I flop down onto the mattress with a small ‘oof.’ He smiles down at me and nudges his nose against mine.  </p><p>“How do you wanna do this?” </p><p>I give him a confused look, rubbing my hands along his back. He rolls his eyes and his hips against mine in a seductive roll.  </p><p>“Do I get to fuck you or are you sticking this thick cock in me?” Ian is whispering right in my ear, thick and hot, and my fingers dig deep into his back muscles. I groan and spread my legs, wrapping myself around his lower back and Ian buries his face in my neck and lets out a satisfied sigh. “Thank God.” </p><p>“Not that I wouldn’t fuck you,” I say against his neck, “I would. I will. But I need to feel you.” </p><p>“You’ll feel me.” Ian kisses the spot behind my ear and I black out for a minute. “You’ll feel every inch of me. All night long. You’ll feel me for days, Mick.” </p><p>I grab at his ass and push him down harder on top of me and dig my heels into his back. He kisses me, deep and messy, just the way I feel about him. I let one hand go from his ass to reach for the bedside table to open the drawer for the lube and realize I have no condoms.  </p><p>“Fuck,” I whisper.  </p><p>“What?” Ian mumbles against my neck, licking and biting at the sensitive skin.  </p><p>“I don’t have any rubbers. I don’t usually fuck here.” </p><p>Ian pulls his head up and we look at each other; the other trying to figure out what the other is thinking.  </p><p>“You fuck around a lot?” </p><p>I shrug. “Been a while. Kinda get my kicks in other ways.” </p><p>“It's been almost a year for me. Getting my shit together and all. Trying to make better choices.” </p><p>I nod, bringing my bottom lip into my mouth. His eyes glaze over and he rocks his hips against mine. “Probably a bad idea to fuck without one.” </p><p>“Yeah,” he whispers, ghosting his lips against mine. His hips move down and I feel his bare cock against my hole.  </p><p>“I mean, I’m always careful, but good choices and all.” I moan at the feeling of his cock near my ass. He keeps pushing his hips up and I can feel his tip catching on my rim.  </p><p>“Right.” He moans and sucks my bottom lip into his mouth. My hand grips the lube in the drawer and I push my ass against his cock. I know it won't go in. I’m too dry and it's been a long time. I know I need to be opened up before that monster can get in, but his tip is wet and I feel it smearing against my opening.  </p><p>“Fuck.” I drop the lube on the bed beside us and take his face in my hands and lick into his mouth. He’s whining and grinding against my ass and  I know we shouldn’t do this. We shouldn’t do this. I don’t fuck without condoms. I don’t know where those fuckers have been. But I’m always careful and as much as I shouldn’t, I trust Ian. Fuck, I trust him. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt me, I know that much is true.  </p><p>“I won't lie, Mick.” Ian says between laps of our tongues. “The idea of filling you up, sounds fucking hot.” </p><p>I groan and push down more onto his cock.  </p><p>“Knowing I’m marking you from the inside? Watching it spill out of you, down your thighs? Making you mine. In every way.” </p><p>I bite his tongue on one deep thrust of his tongue in my mouth and he pushes his tip gently inside me, just enough for me to feel the wetness and a slight intrusion. “Yes. Yes,” I chant. “Fuck me.” </p><p>I’m not like this in bed. I’m not needy. I’m not this submissive. But Ian does something to me I’ve never felt.  </p><p>Safe.  </p><p>He makes me feel safe for the first time in my life.  </p><p>He grabs the lube, not taking his mouth off mine and I barely register him coating his fingers before I feel them on my hole, wasting no time pushing one finger deep inside me. I arch up, my mouth falling away from his. He buries his face into the crook of my neck as he works me open, adding a second finger along with the first. It’s been so long since someone has done this to me. Since I’ve allowed it. If I know I want to get fucked, I usually open myself up so it's easier for a quick lay in the alley or bathroom. There is something more intimate about this, than just sticking a dick up there.  </p><p>I can feel his fingers scissoring me open; deep and wide inside me. The pad of his finger glides over my sweet spot and I cry out and push down deeper on his fingers. He smiles into my neck, peppering kisses along it and my collar bone. I keep gripping his arms, the back of his neck, even pulling at the small hairs there, needing leverage as he pushes me into bliss.  </p><p>He fingers me for what feels like hours. He wants me open, wet for him. I know it. He’s a gold star top, even if he’s been out of commission for a while. It makes me feel a jolt of satisfaction knowing he’s chosen me after so long. My cock is red and on fire between us and every so often he brushes his hand over it, like a silent promise that he will make me cum. I’m already so close, I’m afraid the second he’s inside me I’m gonna bust. I don’t care. I need to feel him. Now. </p><p>“Ian...” I plead and chase his mouth. He pulls his hand from me gently and leans back on his heels, pouring more lube into the palm of his hand. His eyes never leave mine as he slicks his cock up generously. It somehow looks bigger from this angle and I give myself a few tugs on my own dick watching him. He licks his lips and grabs my legs under my knees so I can rest them on his shoulders. I’ve never fucked like this. He can sense my nervousness, my insecurity, but he runs his hands up and down my legs and thighs to ground me.  </p><p>I nod, telling him I’m okay. I’m ready.  </p><p>He pushes his tip against my hole and keeps pushing until he pops inside me, my rim gripping him tightly around the first 2 inches of his monster. He sighs, his eyes sliding closed as his fingers tighten on my ankles. I hold my breath at the breach, I’ve never taken someone so big. I feel powerless, completely out of my own control. And it should scare me, but it doesn’t. I realize it's what I’ve been craving. For someone to know exactly what I need. Someone to make me forget. To touch me, make me feel something other than what I’ve held inside me my entire life. That not every touch causes pain. That sex doesn’t have to mean trauma. That someone who cares can make you feel something different.  </p><p>He keeps pushing after a minute, taking his time so I open easily for him. I feel full and it hurts but, in a way, I didn’t know I had been craving. He keeps doing this little hip check where he pulls out a little only to push back in further. Its torture in the most glorious of ways. My hands are gripping the sheets as he tries to get all of himself inside me and I lock my ankles around the back of his neck. When I feel his balls hit my ass with a loud slap, we both groan. He leans down over my body and I can feel the sweat that has formed on his forehead drip onto my chest and I push the hair off his face. His eyes look such a dark green with the lust reflecting in them and I see something else.  </p><p>I see a lot of things.  </p><p>But the thing I see the most, the thing I know is shoving back at him in my blue eyes is trust.  </p><p>And that’s bigger to me than love.  </p><p>He frames my head with his arms and he starts to fuck me; strong, forceful pushes of his hips into my body as I open myself up to him. I clench my hole around him, every time he pulls out, only for him to moan and push back into me deeper. I can hear the slap of his balls against my skin, the wetness of his dick in my used hole. I must be gaping with how he’s fucking me. He’s lost in it, his eyes hungry and his sounds almost animalistic. I can barely speak at how it feels to have him inside me. There are only loud noises and grunts coming from my throat. My hands find every patch of skin on him I can from his neck, to face, to back, to arms, to his ass. I dig my fingers into the fleshy part of his ass and push him deeper inside me. I feel like I’m becoming a part of him with how far inside me he is. Now he’s just inside me, deep and hard against my prostate and he finds my mouth with his eyes squeezed shut and this kiss is different from all the others.  </p><p>This one feels like a promise. Of something new. Of something different. Of something that neither of us thought we would or could ever find.  </p><p>“Mickey. Fuck. You feel so good. It’s never felt this good. How does this feel so good?” He’s muttering against my mouth, his hips just pushing deeper inside me and I swear I can feel him in my throat. The pressure he’s putting on my prostate is too much and I cling to him, trying to get a warning to come out of my mouth, but I can only whimper and shake underneath his body.  </p><p>“That’s it. Cum for me. Let me feel you. Please. I’m so close. I need to fill you up.” Ian gives one more push of his hips and he hits me hard and strong against my spot and I scream, arching and tightening like a vice around him. I feel my cock pulse and release between our stomachs and he groans low in his chest and looks down between us just in time to see my tip push out three long spurts of cum. He’s panting and his eyes are wide and I  grab his face and look right into his eyes.  </p><p>“Cum inside me.” </p><p>He stops breathing for a second and his eyes slam shut and his hips still and I feel it. I feel his cock harden and then a hot wetness spreading inside me. He’s silent as he cums, a total difference from my own orgasm and I just watch his face as the waves of ecstasy roll over him.  </p><p>Fuck, he’s beautiful.  </p><p>He collapses on top of me, his dick still hard inside me for minutes. We catch our breath, giving small kisses to patches of skin during those minutes. He’s heavy on top of me, but I don’t want him to move. Ever. I feel his cock finally start to soften and I can feel his cum sliding out of me. He moans when he feels it too and he finally lifts his head to look at me.  </p><p>“Fuck that’s hot.” </p><p>I smile and kiss him gently. I’ve never had this. Afterglow or whatever the fuck they call it. I’ve never stayed long enough to feel it. I’m gone before the condom even comes off. But there were no condoms tonight. I feel a slight panic in my chest and my body tenses and Ian feels it and holds me closer.  </p><p>“Shh. It’s okay. What’s wrong?” </p><p>I swallow hard. “Just...intense.” </p><p>He laughs. “You kill people and this was intense?” </p><p>I blink up at him. “Killing is easy. This is...hard.” </p><p>“This?” </p><p>I gnaw on my bottom lip. “Feeling.” </p><p>“What do you feel?” he asks softly.  </p><p>There are so many ways I can answer that. Good. Scared. Happy. Confused. Safe.  </p><p>But none of them are the right words.  </p><p>“Like you’re mine.”</p><p></p><div class="center">
  <p>**********************</p>
</div><p>I feel two things when my eyes open. </p><p>Warm and sore. </p><p>The combination of the two things sends a thrill through my body especially when I shift slightly, trying to avoid the bright sun coming in through the bedroom window, but a strong-arm grips me tighter and pulls me back against another body.  </p><p>I smile and turn my head, sunlight be damned, to see Ian with his eyes closed but a pleased smile spread across his lips.  </p><p>“I gotta piss.” </p><p>Ian groans and pulls me even tighter.  </p><p>“Ian, we’re gonna have to change the fucking sheets if you don’t let me go.” </p><p>“Gotta change the sheets anyway. You came all over them.” </p><p>“Didn't know you were into water sports.” </p><p>Ian laughs and finally let's go and rolls onto his back, throwing his arm over his face to shield the sun. I stare at him, maybe longer than I should. He’s here. In my bed. And I can feel the ache and cum in my ass and we are both sticky from sweat and bodily fluids and I have never felt more alive.  </p><p>“Quit staring and go piss so I can fuck you again.” </p><p>“Already? Didn’t get enough last night?” I throw my legs over the side of the bed and stand, stretching and groaning as I work the sleep and marathon sex out of my muscles.  </p><p>“Mmm,” Ian purrs a pleased sound as if he’s remembering. “Never enough.” </p><p>I take a piss and splash some water on my face and take in my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My neck and chest are covered in red marks that I know will turn purple soon. I press at them, remembering. Remembering his mouth on me. His hands. I must have spent minutes there, just pressing at the marks and suddenly but so gently, Ian is behind me. He rests his hands on my hips and stares at my reflection in the mirror.  </p><p>“Sorry.” </p><p>I raise an eyebrow at him.  </p><p>“I got carried away with the marks.” </p><p>I shrug. “It's cool. I like em.” </p><p>He chuckles, kissing my neck. “I am you know.” </p><p>“Hmmm?” My eyes slide shut as he moves his mouth over the already there. He laves at them, his tongue hot and firm. He rests his chin on my shoulder and looks at me again in the glass.  </p><p>“Yours.” </p><p>I sigh, bringing my hand up to grip the back of his head. I bring his mouth to mine and we kiss, awkward and twisting, and I feel my dick begin to fill as he presses his own against my ass and he begins to tongue fuck my mouth like his body fucks me. I want him. Now that I’ve had him, I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to get enough of him. I never thought I would have something like this. Someone like this. Someone I could be myself around. Someone I didn’t have to hide from. He can see everything I am. Everything I’ve become.  </p><p>I know there is more I need to know about him. I know the things he wants to tell me are always on the tip of his tongue. It's like he’s worried I’m going to judge him, or think differently about him about the things he’s gone through. We all have a story. We all have that one thing that happened to us that stays with us, deep under our skin. Like there is a whole other person clinging to your insides. The person you were. The person who went through those things. You can't get rid of them.  </p><p>I finally break the kiss, catch my breath, and turn in his arms. I wrap my hands around his face and give him one more closed mouth quick kiss. “Lemme make you breakfast.” </p><p>“Amazing sex and food? Best relationship ever.”  </p><p>I tense in his arms and his eyes go wide.  </p><p>“I just fucked this up.” </p><p>“No. No.” I shake my head and my nerves off me. “No. Just...never been in one before.” </p><p>“We don’t have to rush.” Ian’s arms are draped over my shoulders and he’s giving me this satisfied and honest look.  </p><p>“I’m good. Just a lot to sort through. Not sure exactly how to do this.” </p><p>“This?” </p><p>“My life. How do I be who I am and still do what I do and get to have you in between?” </p><p>“Well,” Ian pulls me closer, “I already know who you are and what you do. And I’ve already told you how I feel about it. If it's something you want to do on your own, I’ll be right here waiting for you when you get home. If you want me to be involved, I can do that too. I know a lot of those fucking assholes. I can lead you right to them.” </p><p>“I don’t want you to get too involved. If this ever goes south, I can't have you go down too.” </p><p>“It’s sweet you’re worried about me. But I’m South Side. I’m not stupid.” </p><p>“Never said you were, Firecrotch.” </p><p>He smirks at the nickname. “It's your choice. But you don’t have to worry about me changing my mind or getting in the way. I just want you.” </p><p>“There’s things you don’t know.” </p><p>“I know. There’s a lot you don’t know about me too. We can both talk about it when we’re ready.” </p><p>“I’ve never talked about...all that shit.” I swallow and Ian just rubs the back of my neck. “It’s there...it's the reason...” I close my eyes. “But I don’t talk about it. Never did.” </p><p>“When I finally came down from the mania, I remembered almost every single thing I did. Every disgusting, horrible thing I did to myself and others. I talked about most of it in therapy and with my family. But there are still things I’ve never told a soul. Things I keep deep inside me. Because I feel like if I say them out loud, it makes them true. And there are some things I don’t want to be true. Whether I know they are or not.” </p><p>I open my eyes and I can see the shame and the fear and the regret deep in the green of Ian’s eyes. He gets it. I don’t know how he does, but he does. I guess cause maybe, in the big scheme of things, horrible things are horrible things to everyone, no matter what they are. They all stay with us. They all hitch a ride inside us and refuse to leave.  </p><p>“I’m in,” I whisper.  </p><p>Ian pulls me close and presses his lips to my forehead. “Me too, Mick. I’m all fucking in.”</p><p></p><div class="center">
  <p>********************</p>
</div><p>Things don’t change that much. </p><p>Ian pretty much moves in, not like he wasn’t really living here already. I may or may not have gone to the Gallagher house to help him get his shit and endured the stink eye from his older brother who I remember from high school and he looks so fucking confused when he saw me.  </p><p>“Mickey fucking Milkovich? Really? Did you lose a fucking bet?” </p><p>Ian just rolled his eyes and continued to shove clothes into 2 duffle bags laid out on his childhood bed. He rummaged through drawers finding books and little shit that must be of importance to him and that’s when it hit me. All at once like a mother fucking Mac truck.  </p><p>Ian was moving in with me. Like full on share the rent and closet space and waking up next to him every morning and sharing soap and my heart began to pound so hard I honestly thought I was having a heart attack. I left his room, shoving past Lip in the doorway and stomped down the stairs and threw open the front door and inhaled the fresh air as it hit my lungs. It was all so much, so fast. I wanted Ian. All of him and everything that came with him. But I’ve been alone for so long, I have a routine, I have secrets, things he hasn’t seen or heard. And now it wasn’t just about me. It was about someone else now. I had to care about someone other than myself.  </p><p>And that was more terrifying than anything.  </p><p>The  door opened and I looked behind me, through my cigarette smoke to find Lip looking down at me with a displeased look. I just raised an eyebrow at him and he flopped down next to me on the front stair.  </p><p>“So, you and Ian, huh?” </p><p>I rolled my eyes and continued to inhale the nicotine into my lungs to keep myself from punching the guy.  </p><p>“Yeah.” </p><p>He hummed low in his throat and picked at the fraying of his jeans. “You know, it took Ian a long time to get himself back together. I can't help but feel like he might be slipping back into old impulsive ways. I mean, he doesn’t even have a job and now all of sudden he’s moving in with his boyfriend, that none of us even knew he had. So, sue us for being a little concerned. And surprised.” </p><p>I sighed heavily and stubbed the butt of my cigarette out on the step. “Look, yeah it happened fast. Wasn’t expecting it myself. But...I don’t know what to tell you, man. I like him. A lot. And I know more than you think I do. I know Ian doesn’t have a job, but I also know he’s been studying his ass off for weeks now for this EMT exam. And I make sure he takes his fucking pills and he’s eating and I’m keeping an eye on him, okay?” </p><p>Lip eyed me and inhaled his cigarette, letting it waft out of his nostrils, his expression never changing. He just continued to eye me until the  door opened again and I looked up to find Ian smiling down at me all bright and happy and eyes shining in the afternoon sunlight. And just like that, all my fear and tension, floated away.  </p><p>“Stop giving him the big brother routine, Lip. I’m fucking fine.” Ian held out his hand to me, to help me off the step, and I took it, him pulling me close to his body as he continued to smile.  </p><p>I barely heard Lip’s voice behind me, as I looked into Ian’s eyes.  </p><p>“Yeah, I can see that.” </p><p>So here we are now, us sitting on opposite ends of the couch, but our legs meeting in the middle, intertwined. I have my eyes glued to an episode of Criminal Minds and Ian is highlighting his EMT manual in green now, over the yellow, like some sort of obsessive-compulsive lunatic. The squeaking of the marker is grating on my nerves and between the highlighting, he’s chewing on the end of his marker and finally I abandon the TV and just stare at him and his creased forehead and heavy sighing in between his turning pages.  </p><p>“Ian.” </p><p>Silence. </p><p>“Ian.” </p><p>More marker chewing. </p><p>“IAN GALLAGHER.” I kick his shin and his head shoots up and he glares at me.  </p><p>“What the fuck, Mick?” </p><p>“Put the book down.” </p><p>He frowns. “I need to study. The test is in 2 days.” </p><p>“I know. But you’ve been studying day and night for the past week. Put the book down. It's my first night off in weeks.” </p><p>The corners of his mouth uptakes a little and he rests the book on his lap, the marker holding his place. “Aw, does Mickey need attention?” </p><p>“Well, my ass certainly does. The whole reason I let you move in here was so I could get dicked regularly, and so far, you have not held up your end of the deal. The last thing I got was a clumsy hand job in the shower the other morning.” </p><p>“Oh, that’s why I moved in, huh?” Ian throws the book onto the coffee table and shoves my legs off the couch and crawls over me, eyes dark and his tongue licking at his bottom lip. There he is. Not the distracted and over focused Ian. This Ian. My Ian.  </p><p>The thought pops into my head and my chest tightens. He is. He is mine.  </p><p>“Among other things.”  </p><p>Ian presses his body down hard on mine and bites gently at my jaw. My hands go up into his hair and he purrs as I tug on his locks. “What other things?” he whispers. </p><p>“Hmm. Let's see.” I run my hands down his back. “You moved in to cook for me. Wash my back. Do my laundry.” I suck a mark into his pale neck and he moans and presses his jeaned cock against mine. He rocks his hips and I grab at his ass. “Oh, and one more thing.” He pants against my mouth as I buck my hips up into his; a torturous but delicious pressure building in our groins as we ghost our lips over each other's and he wraps his hands around the back of my neck and I knead my hands into his tight ass. “To kill with me,” I whisper.  </p><p>He groans so loud and, in this moment, I have never felt more alive. I can say those things to him. I can be myself and tell him my fantasies and my wants and needs and he enjoys them. He doesn’t judge or get scared. It turns him on. It makes me wonder how deep his demons go if the idea of me killing, and him helping, gets him this gone on me. It can't be healthy. I know I'm not healthy. I know I'm 100 kinds of ways of fucked up. And maybe I’m bringing Ian into a world he shouldn’t be in.  </p><p>“I could help you.” He moans against my mouth. He licks my bottom lip and every guilty thought I had goes out the window. “I could do what I did last night. Lure men in with my sweet dance moves...” I laugh against his lips and he presses his mouth on me hotly. “Get them to think they have me. But then...” He kisses me again, our tongues battling for control. I’m about to bust in my fucking jeans. “You kill them. And then...” He sucks my bottom lip between his teeth. “I get to fuck you deep into our mattress, cumming deep inside your ass.” </p><p>I practically scream on the last roll of his hips and my orgasm is ripped out of me. Ian stills above me and sighs softly into my mouth. “Jesus that was fucking hot.” </p><p>“You’re fucking hot.” I bury my face into his neck and feel the heat rise in my cheeks from embarrassment.  </p><p>“I wanna cum on your face.” Ian pulls back and searches my eyes and, in this moment, I feel so exposed. It’s such a submissive, humiliating thing to have done to you. I’ve never let anyone, or even given the thought to let anyone do that. But Ian has broken down so many of my walls already. And I know he doesn’t want to do it to make me feel submissive or humiliated. He just wants to see his cum all over my face. Maybe it’s a bit domineering, but Ian is a top, in every aspect of his life. And it's fine. I’m more than fine with that. If he wants to be the top in the bedroom, I can be a top in every other part of my life. In fact, I welcome that. I welcome the idea of giving myself over to him. To let him have control over this one thing, so I can give it up.  </p><p>“Yes,” I whisper, because honestly, I think I’d give him anything if he asked me.</p><p></p><div class="center">
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</div>Ian has an episode right after he takes the EMT test.  <p>It lasts almost two weeks.  </p><p>He lies in bed for that entire two weeks. He keeps telling me I don’t deserve this. That once he’s better he’s going to leave. That he thought he had it under control. But he knows he will be like this for the rest of his life and he doesn’t want to put me through it.  </p><p>I must have told him to shut the fuck up at least 50 times.  </p><p>I carried him to the shower and cleaned him up when he wet the bed. He cried, his arms around his knees as he sat under the spray of the shower. He cried until the water ran cold and I just sat there next to the tub. I never left him. Because I know he’d never leave me.  </p><p>I beg him to let me take him to the hospital but he loses his mind screaming about how they will lock him up again and he can't go back there. I used to think my demons were the darkest. But Ian’s hide in parts of his mind that I may never be able to see. Or understand. I do get him to agree to go to the clinic. I all but carry him to the car I borrowed from Rob at work and they get him some new meds and his shrink smiles at me as I put my arms around him to lead him down the hallway.  </p><p>“He talks about you. He tells me you changed his life.” </p><p>It should mean something good, but to me, it doesn’t.  </p><p>Lip finally won't take no for an answer anymore and ends up at my apartment on day nine. I tell him the truth, he was studying day and night and not sleeping. That I know I should have done something sooner, that I knew what was happening before it even happened, but I’m doing something about it now, and he’s got new meds and he ate some toast this morning. It's something.  </p><p>He just sits next to Ian on the bed and whispers things to him I can't hear. But I stay close. Lip keeps stealing glances at me and when he leaves, I expect him to give a long ass lecture about how if I plan to be with Ian, I need to be more careful and but he doesn’t. Instead, he tells me I did okay. That I tried. And it was a lot more than most people would do.  </p><p>I’m not meant to have this. I don’t mean because Ian has some sort of fucked up disorder that he can't always control. I mean this, a relationship with happiness. Because I know it wasn’t just the stress of the test. It was the stress of me. Of who I am, of what I do. What he needs to keep secret. What I’ve brought him into.  </p><p>When he finally gets out of bed on the 13th day, he finds me on the couch, sitting in the quiet.  </p><p>“Thank you,” he says after a few minutes. He reaches for my hand but I pull away.  </p><p>“I’m not good for you, Ian.” </p><p>“This wasn’t your fault, Mickey. I did this to myself. I knew I was pushing myself too hard. I-” </p><p>“No. It wasn’t just the EMT shit. It was my shit too. What I do. What I’ve brought you into and made you do.” </p><p>“You didn’t make me do anything. I wanted to. I want you.” </p><p>“You don’t know what you want.” </p><p>“Oh, because I’m bi-polar, I don’t know how I feel now?” </p><p>“I don’t know. Maybe you don’t.” </p><p>“I’m not letting you push me away. You didn’t let me do it to you, I’m not letting you do it either.” </p><p>“I’ll ruin you. I’ll destroy everything you are. If I end up getting caught...if they catch you...I’ll fuck up everything you’ve worked so hard for. I’m not worth that.” </p><p>“I can make my own decisions. You don’t get to use my illness against me.” </p><p>“This has nothing to do with your fucking bi-polar!” I stand from the couch and start to pace. “This has to do with the kind of person I am! How fucked up I am! How half the time I want to rip my heart out of my chest because I can't fucking breathe. How I have to take fucking sleeping pills so I don't have nightmares.” </p><p>“You think I don’t get that? That I don’t understand? I do. So, what if we are both fucked up? We understand each other! Isn't that enough? Isn't it enough to find someone in this world who gets when the darkness is too much? Mickey, you didn’t even blink when this happened to me. You stayed so calm. No one does that. Not even my family. They scramble everywhere trying to find a way to fix me. You didn’t, you just let me be. You stayed with me. But you never pushed too hard. You let me work this out in my own way.” Ian sighs heavily. </p><p> “Don't you think I hear you in the middle of the night? Don’t you think I know you’re having nightmares? Don’t you think I know why you do what you do? I may not know the details, but I get it. I don’t judge you. I don’t feel sorry for you. I just understand. Like you understand me. Now, why can't that just be enough? Why does this have to be something good or bad? Why are they the only two options? Life isn't like that. Why can't we just be Ian and Mickey and figure it out together?” </p><p>I stare at him, the pleading look in his tired eyes. Dark circles lining them. His chapped lips. His messy hair. Even in this state he still looks so beautiful. And this beautiful, damaged, whirlwind, smart, funny creature, wants me. And I don’t deserve him. But I’ll take it. As long as I can.  </p><p>“Yeah, okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”</p><p></p><div class="center">
  <p>******************</p>
</div><p>It had been almost four months. Sometimes I like to take a break between kills so I don’t get too comfortable or clumsy or big headed. In reality I’ve only killed 12 people. In 2 years. Sometimes I do 3 in 3 months. Sometimes I do one in 6. It all depends. On circumstances and seasons and how many pedos I happen to come across. Sometimes there are more than I can take care of. Sometimes there are none. But ever since Ian, the need to kill, the buzzing under my skin, the heat in my hands to kill hasn’t been as strong. But ever since that night that Ian confessed how he wants to help. Watch. All the times he’s told me how I’m doing something good, the itch is back. And all I want now, more than anything, more than killing to get these assholes off the street and out of my club, is for Ian to be there too. So, he can get some retribution. Some peace. Some clarity. Some healing.  </p><p>Because as much as I don’t want another kid like Ian or even...me...to go through what we did, why I really do it...why I do the things I do, is because it helps. It helps get rid of the nightmares. It helps to let Ian touch me. Because before...for years...even though I knew I was gay...I couldn't even think about another guy touching me. But as soon as I started to kill...I started to heal. Ian didn't seem to have that problem. He went in the opposite direction of his trauma. He became over sexualized. But he got help and now he chose me.  </p><p>And I chose him to fully trust. To give myself to him in ways I never thought I could. And I want him to heal like I have. I want to give him everything.  </p><p>Those four months were filled with work for both of us. Ian, having passed his EMT test with flying colors, got a job working nights like me. To them it's like orientation, giving the new guy the night hours to break him in, but he welcomed the hours so we were almost on the same schedule. It sucks coming home to an empty apartment, but we end up talking for almost an hour before I fall asleep on the nights it’s slow for him. And in the morning when he finally gets home, he showers and curls up next to me smelling like tropical fruit and his hair is wet and he kisses my shoulder before pulling me against him and falling asleep.  </p><p>Those four months are filled with arguments about stupid shit. Laundry and not cleaning the sink when we shave or brush our teeth. Fights about dishes and what to watch on TV. Petty bullshit like the guy checking out Ian at the 7-Eleven and me nearly taking the guy out in the parking lot and us fighting about it when we get home because ‘I can't just punch people who look at him’ and yeah, in reality it sounds reasonable, but it's a feeling I’m not used to and when Ian says the word jealous, I may lock myself in the bedroom for two hours because no matter how submissive I may be in the bedroom, I’m still a man and I will not admit I’m jealous.  </p><p>He lets me fuck him for the first time that night.  </p><p>He lets me take control and open him up for hours. I eat his ass like it's my last meal and he holds his legs open under his knees and lets me do things to his body he isn't used to. He tells me it’s the first time in a long time he’s let someone do it. Most of the times it happened before he didn’t remember it, but he knew it happened. I tell him, this time, he’ll remember. This time it will feel right. This time it will be on his terms. His choice. </p><p>And he chooses me.  </p><p>He lets me slide into his body and he clings to me like a lifeline. I don’t fuck him like he usually fucks me. I take him slowly, mostly just pressing inside him and giving slow rolls of my hips, holding him as close as I can. I want to make him feel like he makes me feel. I want him to know bottoming doesn’t have to be like he remembers. That even with me inside him, he can have control. He doesn’t have to live with those memories anymore. I want to erase them. I want him to only feel me. Think of me when he thinks of sex. I don’t want him to live with his demons anymore. I want to take them on.  </p><p>He’s told me everything. Bits and pieces coming out over the past six months. Every traumatic detail told in the darkness of our bedroom while I hold him and he holds my hand so tightly, I can feel the pins and needles in my fingers. But the one thing, the biggest thing, the thing that drives all my murderous ways, I have yet to tell him.  </p><p>It’s a typical late morning, both of us groggy from waking up and our stomachs growling and waking us up from the warmness of our blankets. He’s smiling with his eyes closed, stretching his legs out and groaning as his muscles come back to life. I’m staring at him; I’ve been awake a lot longer than him. His eyes flutter open and he leans over to press a kiss to the side of my mouth and I’m frozen in place. He pulls back, eyes focused and concerned.  </p><p>“What’s wrong.” </p><p>“It was my uncle,” I blurt out.  </p><p>His eyes widen, then soften, then narrow. The mix of emotions cloud his eyes as he processes what I’m telling him.  </p><p>“How old?” He whispers. </p><p>“Ten to fourteen.” </p><p>He nods and swallows hard. “Did you tell?” </p><p>I shake my head. “My dad...he was the worst fucking person in this world. Homophobic. Racist. Drug addict. Alcoholic. Beat the shit out of me and brothers our entire life. Beat my mother until she finally took off. Made us run drugs and guns for him. I lived in fear of him my entire life. And my uncle...” I close my eyes as my throat starts to close. I’ve never said this out loud. To anyone. “I think he saw it in me. That I was gay. I think my dad knew too, which is probably why he hated me the most. Why he took such a special interest in me. Made me do things he didn’t make my brothers do. Sometimes I wonder if he made me into what I am. If he made me crave the violence. The blood. Maybe he did, in his own way. But my uncle, he...he saw what I was. He...did things to me...and he had friends. And...I...” </p><p>“Shhh.” Ian pulls me to him and I press my face against his chest while he rubs his fingertips against the back of my head. “You don’t need to say anything else. I get it.” </p><p>“I’ve never said it...I...” </p><p>“I get it. I understand. It makes sense. And it’s okay. Everything you do is still okay.” </p><p>“Is it?” </p><p>“He never got what he deserved. But these men do. Nothing has ever made more sense to me.” </p><p>I pull back to look at him. He’s not disgusted. There is no look of pity on his face. He’s looking at me like he always does.  </p><p>With love.  </p><p>I feel it.  </p><p>It’s a sudden rush of heat through my body. Heat and fear. But then the fear subsides and I feel calm. And more like myself than I ever have.  </p><p>I feel free.  </p><p>What he and I have, makes me free. </p><p>“I love you.”  </p><p>His eyes widen again and I see the wave of emotions one more time and then his fingers are tracing over the scar above my eye from the gun my dad used. And over my eyebrows that always show exactly how I’m feeling. Over the slope of my nose and then down over my lips paying close attention to my bottom lip. He looks perfect. And I don’t deserve him. I don’t deserve this. I’m broken. Nothing can ever fully heal me.  </p><p>But he’s filling up the broken pieces with his broken pieces and they may still be cracked. the pain isn't coming through like it used to.  </p><p>“I am so in love with you, Mickey Milkovich.”</p><p>
  <b>Later:</b>
</p><p>The metal is cold and constricting on my wrists. I pull up and the chain grinds on the hook on the table and I sigh heavily closing my eyes.  </p><p>It took seconds. Seconds to destroy everything. How careful I was. How hard I tried to be normal and be able to have something with Ian. What we had built, what we had gone through just so we could find each other, destroyed in one simple mistake. One I’ve always been so careful not to make.  </p><p>The door opens and a man and a woman walk in, both in expensive suits and they pull up chairs across the table from me.  </p><p>“I assume you’ve been read your rights, Mr... Milkovich?” The woman asks. </p><p>“Yeah.” </p><p>“So, you know why you’re here?” </p><p>“Not a clue.” </p><p>The man chuckles low in his chest. “I highly doubt that.” </p><p>“What can you tell us about Robert Schulman?”  </p><p>“Who?” </p><p>“Robert Schulman.” Suit lady slides a picture in front of me of a white-haired man on the ground in an alley, blood all around him. I eye it and look back up at her.  </p><p>“I think he’s been in the club I work at, but I don’t really know him.” </p><p>“Funny, because we found your blood at the crime scene. See, you’re in the system Mr. Milkovich.” She opens a folder and sits back in her chair. “Possession with intent to sell. Assault of a police officer. Possession of a firearm. Burglary. Seems like you’ve been following right in your father's footsteps.” </p><p>“Well, if you read correctly, you’d see those are all juvenile offenses. I haven't been in trouble since I was 17. I did my time in juvie. Now I have a job and my own apartment and I haven't been in trouble in almost five years.” </p><p>“Mm. Right. Bouncer at the Fairy Tale. The very club where we found Mr. Schulman’s body in the alley. “ </p><p>I raise an eyebrow at her. “And?” </p><p>“And your blood was found in the alley next to the body.” </p><p>“What do you want me to tell you? Do you know many fights I get into in the alley when these assholes don’t want to leave the club?” </p><p>“Was Robert Schulman one of these assholes?” </p><p>“I’ve never had a problem with him. Didn’t even know his name.” </p><p>“But you killed him.” </p><p>“Didn't kill anyone.” </p><p>“All the evidence shows that you did. In fact, after doing some more digging it seems like a lot of older men have been disappearing left and right, 12 to be exact over the past two years. All men over the age of 50 who have been seen in your club and then vanish. No body. Car gone. Just...poof. Into thin air.” </p><p>I lean back and settle my palms against the metal table. “I don’t know what to tell you. I bounce at the club. When someone gets too handsy or too drunk I bounce them on their ass. Sometimes they are still there when I leave and want to have a round of fist-a-cuffs in the alley. If that’s a crime, then book me on assault. But I didn’t kill anyone. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like my lawyer now.” </p><p>It’s a staring contest and then the door opens and yet another man enters and leans down and whispers something in the woman's ear. Her eyes widen and then she nods, him leaving her to lean across the table to whisper in her partner's ear. She reaches across the table to grab the picture from in front of me and shoves it back in a folder with my entire life inside it and closes it, tapping it and giving me an annoyed look.  </p><p>“Problem?” </p><p>She just huffs out a laugh. “You are more like your father than I realized.” </p><p>“Fuck that’s supposed to mean?” </p><p>“Just one more question, Mr. Milkovich. Tell me what you know about Ian Gallagher.” </p><p>My hands fold into tight fists on the table.</p><p>
  <b>Five days earlier:</b>
</p><p>I’ve been pretending to seem interested in this yuppie fucks yammering for almost an hour. But I can't keep my eyes off Ian.  </p><p>The way he moves his body to the music. The way the men become mesmerized by him, young and old, and form a circle around him to watch him dance. Todd or Chad or...whatever the fuck his name is keeps going on and on about his studies in philosophy and I keep nodding and making the occasional eye contact, but I’m keeping a closer eye on Ian. One old asshole keeps getting closer and closer to him, running his hand down his arm and over his ass and whispering something in his ear from time to time that Ian just answers with a small flirty smile. If I didn’t know better, if I was less self-assured in our relationship, I would think Ian was being genuine. But I know he’s not. I know he’s acting, luring right into his trap. </p><p>Into our trap.  </p><p>I let yuppie fuck think I’m interested. So much in fact that when I look up five minutes later, Ian and old fuck are gone. I’m off my barstool before Brad...Tom...whatever...can grab my arm, I’m on the dancefloor looking for a flash of red hair. I’m shoving bodies out of the way, searching every corner until I find them, cuddled up in a corner couch, Ian with his eyes half closed and pressed against that asshole. I watch him from a distance and I know something isn't right. I know his drunk acting. I’ve seen it. And this isn't it.  </p><p>This asshole, somehow, within the fleeting moments of me not paying attention, has drugged Ian. And in this moment, in this realization, every planned moment, every ounce of my self-control disappears. All I see is red and I crave to have his blood pooling from his body. I have to think fast because all I want to do is pound his face in until I hear his bones crack under my fists.  </p><p>“Ay!” I go up to them and the asshole looks up at me, annoyed. I’m interrupting him trying to get in a half unconscious guy’s pants but little does he know that half unconscious guy is mine. “I think your car got broken into.” </p><p>His eyes look me up and down and he frowns. “How do you know it's my car?” </p><p>It's my turn to look him up and down and notice the kind of watch he has on and the name brand of his suit. “Silver Audi, right?” </p><p>He’s standing before I can even get the words out and I thank whatever kind of deity is up there that I can read these fuckers so well. He’s past me in seconds and I grab Ian instantly.  </p><p>“Jesus Christ, Ian, I’m so sorry.” He’s like dead weight against me and his eyes flutter for a moment.  </p><p>“Mickey? Fuck, Mickey. I don’t feel good.” </p><p>“I know. I know, come on.” I drag him to the front of the club and when I see Rob, I gently push Ian onto him. “Can you keep an eye on him for 5 minutes? I’m just gonna grab a ride outside.” </p><p>Rob nods and holds a half-asleep Ian against him. “Roofied?” </p><p>“Yeah,” I choke out and I’m out the door before Rob can answer. I search the sidewalk and the spots on the street until I see old asshole rounding the corner and he’s glaring as he recognizes me.  </p><p>“My car is not being broken into!” He yells and I jog to him, meeting him as close to the alley as possible.  </p><p>“Oh, yeah, sorry man. Must have been someone else's silver Audi.” </p><p>He huffs in aggravation and tries to maneuver around me but I put my hand on his chest. “Excuse me. I have someone waiting for me.” </p><p>“He ain’t for you, man.” </p><p>“You offering me something better?” </p><p>I shrug and brush past him and walk down into the alley, deep into the darkness. I think I almost blew it, but then I hear his footsteps behind me. I don’t have a plan. This isn't how this was supposed to go tonight. But Ian is in there drugged out of his mind and all I can think about is gutting this fucker.  </p><p>I turn next to the dumpster and he’s on me instantly. Hands on my ass, pressing his mouth into my neck. He smells like coffee and expensive cologne and my stomach churns and bile forms in my throat. I reach into my jacket and he pushes his crotch against mine.  </p><p>“You fucked up,” I whisper.  </p><p>“Huh?” His lips feel like snakes on me and I’m shaking and my hand grips the knife harder and my heart is nearly coming out of my chest and I feel like I can't breathe. He doesn’t get to touch me. He doesn’t get to touch Ian. Why does he think he has the right to? Why do any of these men? Why did my uncle? Why... </p><p>Everything goes black. I can feel the blade dig into my palm as I lose track of how many times, I slide it into his stomach. This wasn’t part of the plan.  </p><p>Ian was never part of the plan. </p><p>I’ve fucked everything up.  </p><p>It’s over.  </p><p>I know it.</p><p>
  <b>Four days earlier:</b>
</p><p>When Ian finally stirs next to me at almost 1:00 pm the next afternoon, he looks horrible. Bags under his eyes even though he’s slept almost 12 hours. He’s pale, more than usual and I can see how drained he looks.  </p><p>“Oh my god, my head,” he croaks out and all I can do is stare at him. He blinks a few times. “What happened?” </p><p>“Don't worry about it.” </p><p>“You look worried about it.” He tries to move up onto his elbows but he’s still too weak and he flops back down onto the pillows, groaning. </p><p>“I’m fine.” </p><p>I take care of him all day. I make sure he gets more sleep and I run out and get him Gatorade and soup and it takes him almost a full day for him to come fully back to himself. By that time the news has broken. Dead guy in the alley beside the Fairy Tale. It's just a matter of time. I know what’s coming.  </p><p>He’s shoving chips into his mouth and his thigh is pressed firmly against mine on the couch and I keep stealing glances at him. Our time is limited. There isn't much left. I fucked this up for us. For him. For what could have been.  </p><p>“Ian.” </p><p>“Hmm?” He doesn’t take his eyes off the TV but he turns his body to me slightly.  </p><p>“I need you to listen to me.” </p><p>He turns his head slowly to look at me, the tone in my voice serious and somewhat scary. He swallows his mouthful of chips and he looks at my face and into my eyes for almost a full minute and suddenly he gets it. He knows what’s happening. What’s about to happen. What has happened.  </p><p>“What should I do?” he whispers.</p><p>
  <b>One day earlier:</b>
</p><p>My face hits the floor and I make sure I turn my head in time so I don't get my nose broken. I made sure Ian wasn’t here for this. He knows what he’s supposed to do. He knows in the long run he may need to let me go. I did this to myself, I let myself get too wrapped up in someone. I let myself get distracted. I fucked this up.  </p><p>“Mickey Milkovich. You have the right to remain silent...”</p><p>
  <b>Now:</b>
</p><p>I’ve been a cop for 17 years. I’ve been a detective for six. My father was a cop. My grandfather. I come from a long line of police officers. All born, raised, and defending the South Side. I didn’t come from much. Neither did my father. We did the best we could with what we have. I have a soft spot for some of these criminals that come through the department, I won't lie, and an even softer spot for the gay ones. The ones who have to hide who they are because of the neighborhood they grew up in. The kind that knows what their families would think if they knew. This isn't a forgiving city. Nothing about this world really is, but this place...it’s brutal.  </p><p>I know Mickey Milkovich. Well, at least I knew his father. I know what kind of man he was. And at first all I saw with Mickey was just another product of his environment and his DNA. But I will give credit where credit is due, and I didn’t like him for this murder. Everything he said during the interrogation was true. He had turned his life around. Yeah, he was still rough around the edges. any one from this city honestly is, but he was no murderer. But his blood was at the scene, and he had a record, and it’s a no brainer when it comes to some of these idiot cops we got working in this department who just want an easy collar.  </p><p>So, when Ian Gallagher walked into my precinct and spewed a story that I had heard so many times before from kids like him, it caused a shiver through my entire body.  </p><p>“Ian, I’m detective Sanchez.” I pull up the chair across from the redhead and he nods slowly. His hands are fidgeting in front of him on the cold metal table but he keeps eye contact with me, and it’s a good sign. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?” </p><p>Ian swallows and lets out a shaky breath. “I can handle my own, okay. This isn't the first time some old guy has tried to get something off me. Or from me. I used to...” He squeezes his eyes shut. </p><p>“Hey, just tell me what happened. There is no judgement here. I don’t care about what you’ve done in the past. I just want to know why you’re here, now.” </p><p>He nods again and his eyes open slowly. “I was at the club. I was looking for my boyfriend. I hadn't seen him in like a day or two and he wasn't answering my calls. He’s a bouncer there.” </p><p>“What’s his name?” </p><p>“Mickey.” </p><p>I have to tell myself not to show any emotion on my face. It’s hard, but it's something I’ve mastered over the years. “Okay, go on.” </p><p>“Okay, well he wasn’t there. I asked the bartender if they had seen him and they said he didn’t show up for his shift. There was this guy, old guy, older than normal honestly than I normally see in the club, sitting at the bar. As soon as he heard Mickey’s name, he started staring at me.” Ian swallows. “I looked at him and he’s just...smiling. Like this...evil smile. I can't explain it. Like I said, I’ve had my fair share of older men coming at me...but this was different.” </p><p>“Go on.” </p><p>“I went to turn away from the bar and he grabbed my arm. I asked him to let me go, that I was interested, and the guy said I didn’t need to be. That he knew who I was and that I wasn’t normally his type, but a fag is a fag. I didn’t know what he meant. Like was I too young...or...I don’t know. I finally got my arm free and I booked out of there.” </p><p>“Can you tell me what this man looked like?” </p><p>“I don’t need to. I know who he is.” </p><p>“Okay.” I sit back in my chair.  </p><p>Ian sighs shakily. “I wasn’t even a block away, I was going to Mickey’s apartment, hoping he was there. He wouldn’t just take off. He’s reliable. But then I felt someone grab me. And before I can scream his hand is over my mouth and I’m being pulled into an alley. He was abnormally strong, he was smaller than me, height wise but built you know? But old. Like he had to be 60. And he shoves me up against wall next to the dumpster and I’m trying to get away but he’s so fucking strong. He tells me to stop struggling, that he isn't going to hurt me. That I’m not his type. But he says he knows who I am. He says he’s seen me. He says...” Ian’s eyes fill with tears. “He tells me he knows Mickey. That he can tell why I like him so much. That he...has...” Ian hiccups and I know what’s coming before he even says it. “Been in that ass before.” </p><p>I grip the material of my pants on my knee to keep myself from showing any emotion.  </p><p>“I’m trying to ask him who he is. How he knows Mickey but his hand is around my mouth and I can see the tattoos across his knuckles.” </p><p>My blood runs cold. No. </p><p>“Mickey has them. And he told me his Dad has them, his brothers. Everyone in his family. It’s a Milkovich thing, I guess. I never cared, you know? Mickey isn't a part of that life anymore. But I know it's not his dad. I know his dad is dead. And then...I remembered. His uncle Ronnie.” </p><p>I lean forward on the table. “I know this is hard, Ian. But this is important.” </p><p>“I know. I know.” He wipes his eyes. “Mickey told me he had been...you know...when he was younger. From the time he was like ten to fourteen. But Ronnie. Said he was traded to all his friends too. Never told anyone. Cause, you know Terry. I mean, I didn't know him personally, but when you grow up South Side you hear shit. Terry was a mean son of a bitch. He and my dad used to get into shit all the time. So, I’m paralyzed. Because what does it mean? That he’s been following Mickey this whole time? Knows I’m his boyfriend? But he keeps saying I’m not his type, I’m not his type. He grabs my... dick...and he’s being rough and I just close my eyes because I don’t know what to do. Then I feel it. The knife pressing against my stomach. I try to scream but he just keeps me pinned there.” </p><p>“Then what happened, Ian?” </p><p>“Suddenly he just lets me go. He steps back and I can see the knife now. And the tattoos across both hands. But I can't run. I can't move. I don’t know what to do. He finally just slaps me across the face and tells me he takes care of people like him. I didn’t know what he meant. He was just shaking. He told me to tell Mickey not to worry. That he was taking care of them. I didn’t understand. Then he just walked away. I must have stayed in that alley for hours. I couldn’t move. I tried calling Mickey again. But he didn't answer. I went home, I showered. I know I shouldn’t have...but I felt so disgusting. Then I went to Mickey’s apartment and I was pounding on the door and the neighbor told me Mickey had been arrested. So, I came down here. They told me what he was being charged with. I can't explain it to you, Detective, but I think his uncle has something to do with this. Mickey wouldn’t murder anyone.” </p><p>“Ian, I have to tell you, people at the club have said that Mickey has a temper.” </p><p>“Yeah, he does. He doesn’t like it when people get handsy with the dancers. But that doesn’t make him a murderer! He’s done everything he can to make himself a life. Please you have to believe me.” </p><p>“Okay, Ian.” I sit back in my chair and take a long deep breath. “I’m gonna check out your story. Do you mind waiting around, in case we have any other questions?” </p><p>“Can I see Mickey?” </p><p>“No, I’m sorry you can't. He’s still being processed and if you are a witness, to anything, we can't have you two talking. Do you understand?” </p><p>Ian breaks down now, crying into his hands. “He wouldn’t do this. We worked so hard to get our lives together. He wouldn’t just throw this all away. I know he’s done shit before, but that isn't him anymore.” </p><p>“I understand. But I have to get all the facts together before I can determine whether that’s the truth right now.” </p><p>Ian wipes his nose and lets out an unsteady breath. “Okay. Okay.”</p><p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****************</p>
</div><p>Five pounds of cocaine.  </p><p>Seven Marijuana plants. </p><p>785 tablets of ecstasy.  </p><p>And 12 dead bodies. </p><p>I have seen a lot of horrible shit in my career. Dead kids. Women. Men. Entire families. But what I found in that house...in that backyard...made me unload my lunch in the bush out front.  </p><p>I can read the headline now. They will call it the murder house. Another Milkovich causing pain and suffering in the South Side. Usually when we book a murderer, I can figure it out. I can put two and two together, piece together the puzzle as to why they do what they do. But this guy? He’s a walking contradiction.  </p><p>He kicked and screamed all the way out the door of the bar we found him in. He spewed allegations every second he was in that interrogation room. He didn’t do this. Someone set him up. The only thing he would admit to, was the over 1000 files of child pornography on his computer. And hanging up in his goddamn bedroom. And above the toilet. Like I said, it made me lose my lunch. </p><p>And the bodies? All the missing men we’ve been searching for. All closeted gay men who frequent young gay bars looking for something they can't have. So, what’s the connection? Ronnie Milkovich is obviously a pedophile. So why kill these older gay men? I cannot get a damn thing from the shrinks I had interview him but he still insists he didn’t kill any of those men and that house isn't really lived in, he only uses it for his drugs and ‘cravings’ he called them...he said he never even goes in the backyard. It’s why he didn't even know the bodies were there... </p><p>The only thing our expert can think of is this guy kills men just like him. Men who hurt young men. Because he hates it in himself but he can't stop. So, he stops others. It’s a reach, but we don’t really need a reason to nail this guy's balls to the wall. We have 12 bodies with his DNA everywhere, plus the drug charges and the pornography. He’s done. The only thing I can't piece together is why he was keeping tabs on Mickey all those years. Maybe to make sure he didn’t tell anyone? Maybe to make sure none of these other men touched him? Maybe they had. Maybe it was Ronnie’s way of staking his claim on his nephew. The whole thing makes my skin crawl and almost makes me want to fucking retire.  </p><p>Mickey’s eyes widen...narrow...widen...and then fall sad when I unlock the cuffs from his wrists and explain to him what has been happening over the last two days. When I tell him I know about what happened to him as a child, he looks...ashamed. He can't look at me. He looks everywhere else but at me.  </p><p>“He’s going away for the rest of his life. He may not be exactly paying for what he did to you, Mickey, but he will pay.” </p><p>“I wonder if there were others,” Mickey whispers. “Other kids.” </p><p>“They don’t usually stop at just one,” I tell him softly. He looks nauseous. I know the feeling.  </p><p>“Your boyfriend is a pretty brave guy.” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“Ian Gallagher. He’s the reason we found your uncle. He went after Ian.” </p><p>Mickey’s hands clench and he stands from the table. “Is he hurt? Where is he?” </p><p>“Mickey, he’s fine. He’s been waiting for hours for you to be released. We just had to process the paperwork.” I stand and give him a pointed look. “I’m not usually wrong. But when I am, I say I am. Do you know what I’m saying?” </p><p>“Yeah, you thought I was a fucking serial killer.” </p><p>“Right.” </p><p>Mickey huffs out a laugh. “Am I free to go now?” </p><p>“You are free to go, Mr. Milkovich.” I open the door to the interview room and he is out the door and up the long hallway before I tell him goodbye. I watch from the doorway the way the redhead falls into Mickey’s arms, breathing each other in like they haven't been since they’ve been apart. It’s intimate and I almost feel like I shouldn't be watching it.  </p><p>Sometimes, I’ve learned, when you love someone, it can consume you. It can take over a part of your brain that makes all your logical thinking for you. All you see is the other person. All you feel is the other person. You can only breathe when they are near you. Sometimes that love becomes an obsession. It becomes more than who you are. Sometimes it’s innocent. Sometimes it can be deadly.  </p><p>A chill runs through my body and I realize in this moment, I have a really bad son of a bitch in custody about to go down for a long list of offenses. But there is something...in the way Ian and Mickey are clinging to each other, it’s more than relief, it’s more than fear, that makes me wonder, if maybe I was wrong. I’m not exactly sure what these two are guilty of, but it's something. And I have a feeling, I may never know what.  </p><p>If I cared more, I’d find out. But this last case, what I saw these past few days, has me thinking I need to step down from homicide. Maybe I’ll get into vice. Or the DEA. My stomach can't take much more. And all I really want to do is go home to my wife.</p><p></p><div class="center">
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    <a href="https://ibb.co/bXNjY5s">
      
    </a>
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</div><p>
  <b>Now:</b>
</p><p>I throw my keys on the kitchen counter and shove my jacket off over my shoulders as I watch Ian toe off his shoes near the front door. He locks the door and turns to me, our eyes raking over each other. He looks tired. It's been a long couple of days. </p><p>And I am so fucking proud of him. </p><p>“You did good,” I tell him. </p><p>“I did what you told me to do.” </p><p>“Yeah, but you were perfect. You are perfect.” </p><p>“It was a good plan.” He walks toward me, his eyes darkening. “Something you must have been planning for a long time.” </p><p>“A long con,” I whisper as he plants himself right in front of me. His lips are hovering over mine. I’m just breathing him in.  </p><p>“He got what he deserved.” Ian pauses. “Did you know about the pornography?” </p><p>“A little. Not to the extent it was. I figured the possible assault accusation by you would get them to the house. The drugs would get them the warrant and then they would find the bodies.” </p><p>“I always thought it was your dad’s house when we put the bodies there.” </p><p>“Yeah, well. It was. But Ronnie started using it as his drug house after Pops got shanked and we all fucked off. Just kind of took over where my dad left off.” </p><p>“And you just used it as a getaway plan?” </p><p>I shrug. “Worked, didn’t it?” I reach up and cup the side of his face, my thumb rubbing his cheek. “Couldn't have done it without you.” </p><p>“Good thing you met me then, huh?” </p><p>“Yeah, good thing.” </p><p>“You can't get rid of me now.” </p><p>“Wouldn't dream of it.” </p><p>“Mickey...” Ian moans and before he can say anything else my mouth is on his. His lips open right up, our tongues battling for control. He pulls me by my hips flush against him and his hands slide down to my ass, squeezing and needing it between his fingers. It's been too long since I’ve felt him inside me. I need to feel him. To know that this is real. That somehow, I got away with it. That my plan worked. That the man who destroyed my entire life is going down not only for the horrible things I’ve done, but for things that he probably has done to others like me. I should feel bad, but I don’t. I should feel bad that I made Ian lie for me. That we both could have gotten caught in our lie. But we didn’t, and I don’t.  </p><p>He showed his loyalty to me, his love for me. Our relationship is sick and twisted. But it's so beautiful too. It’s raw and probably insane, but I don’t care. I want him. He wants me. I need him. More than I have ever needed anything in my entire life. Those days I was away from him in that cell, not knowing where he was or if he was okay, were worse than anything I had ever felt. And if the plan hadn't worked, I probably would have found a way to break out. Go to him. Head down to Mexico. Because all I need is to be with him. Even if I never kill again. He’s it for me. This, right here. Feeling his hands on my skin.  </p><p>He licks a long line down my neck and pulls the neckline of my shirt roughly away from my shoulder and bites down on my collarbone. I moan and push my hips against his. I wrestle with his belt and button on his jeans and he just moans loud into my neck as he mirrors my actions on my own clothes. He’s going to fuck me right here in the kitchen, and it’s everything I never knew I needed or wanted. Once my pants are off and his are pushed down to his ankles, he spins me around and pushes my chest down onto the kitchen counter. I can feel his fingers dry at my hole and I push back against his hand.  </p><p>“Fuck me. Please.” My arms are trembling in front of me.  </p><p>“Oh, I’m going to. I’m going to take you right here. Keep you pinned against this counter. The only thing you’re going to feel is my cock deep inside you. The only thing you’re going to be able to think about is how fucking good I make you feel.” </p><p>“Please, Ian.” </p><p>He leaves me there, pressed against the cold counter for less than a minute. The cool air of the apartment is causing my skin to prickle and then I feel his warmth back and his fingers, wet and soft against my hole. He presses two inside me without warning and I moan loud and white knuckle the edge of the counter. His mouth is against my ear, panting and licking.  </p><p>“So, fucking tight. God, I love you like this. I get to have you like this. Needy. Begging for it. Do you know how much I love you, Mickey? What I would do for you?” </p><p>“Yes.” Cause I do. He’s proven it to me. Time and time again.  </p><p>“Are you mine?” he whispers, adding a third finger inside my hole and pushes so deep inside me, he hits my spot and my body seizes up. I drop my head to the counter.  </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>“I can't hear you.” </p><p>“Yes, Ian.” </p><p>“Louder.” </p><p>“YES.” </p><p>“Fuck yes you are.” Ian removes his fingers and before I can even catch a breath, he pushes his cock inside me. He doesn’t wait for me to adjust. He doesn’t give me a chance to get a good enough grip on the slippery counter in front of me. He presses his hand to the middle of my shoulder blades and I am under his control. Just like he wants. Just like I need.  </p><p>Ian fucks me like the world is ending. He pushes up and into me with such a brutal force, his socked feet are slipping all over the place on the wood floor but he holds his ground by gripping my hip so tightly I can already feel the bruises starting to form. His other hand holds me like a prisoner, hard and rough, against the counter. I’m being impaled by him; by his cock, his body, his movements, his everything. And I have never been more in love. I have never been this consumed by someone, or a feeling, ever. Other than shame and hate. But Ian has found a way to take those things out of me and replace them with nothing but him.  </p><p>I can feel the familiar feeling growing in my stomach and my balls are tight against my body and I just keep chanting Ian’s name over and over as he fucks me.  </p><p>“Cum, Mickey. Cum for me. I’m not cumming until you do. Please cum. I’m so close. I need to cum inside you. Please, Mickey.” </p><p>I let one hand go off the counter and reach down for my cock and with two rough pulls, I’m unloading all over the floor underneath me. I clench my ass around Ian’s monster cock and he spreads his body over my back and I feel his teeth bite down onto my neck and he is so deep inside me I can feel the pulse of his cock as he cums. I moan at the feeling of being taken, possessed and owned by this man on top of me.  </p><p>We made it.  </p><p>It's just going to be me and him now.  </p><p>No more demons. No more nightmares.  </p><p>“I love you.”  </p><p>He presses a soft kiss to the bite he left on my neck and keeps his cock inside me. He slides his hand across the counter and interlocks his fingers in mine.  </p><p>“I fucking love you so much,” he whispers.</p><p></p><div class="center">
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    <b>Well, I think you're smart<br/>You sweet thing<br/>Tell me your name<br/>I'm dying here<br/>Got you where I want you, oh yeah</b>
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</div><p>
  <b>Eight months later:</b>
</p><p>My ring clinks against the glass as I wrap my hand around it to bring it to my lips. I keep catching his eye across the bar. He has a wedding band on too. His looks old. Worn. Just like him.  </p><p>I can feel Ian’s hand on my knee and I glance at him. He’s watching him across the bar too. He’s been here before. Just last week he left with a boy who couldn’t have been more than 17. Dirty clothes, looked like he hadn't showered in weeks. A backpack on his shoulder and a look in his eye that Ian and I could recognize anywhere. He was running. Looking for something. Anything. Anything else than what he had before. Somewhere else than where he came from. Ian and I know that well.  </p><p>We never saw that kid again.  </p><p>Now I know I don’t look 17. I look 23. I look my age. But Ian? Could still pass for 16 if he dresses the right way or doesn’t put product in his hair. Which is why this guy has been eyeing my husband all fucking night.  </p><p>New York has been good to us. We moved here about six months ago. We left Chicago and all the bad memories behind us. We also felt it was safer to relocate just in case. Ronnie got 12 consecutive life sentences. 25 years for possession of child pornography. 20 years for the drug charges. He is never going to see the light of day again. And it should have made me feel better. But it didn’t. I shouldn’t have gone and seen him. But I did. As soon as he saw me through that glass, he knew. He knew it was me. He knew I was the reason he was in there. And that did make me feel better. </p><p>“I didn’t know you had it in you, kid.” </p><p>I thumbed at my bottom lip and gripped the phone receiver tighter in my hand. “You got what you deserved.” </p><p>And the bastard laughed.  </p><p>One month into my move to New York I got a call from the prison telling me that Ronnie was beat to death during his work detail.  </p><p>Guess what they say is true. Other prisoners don’t take kindly to kid fuckers.  </p><p>And that was what he truly deserved.  </p><p>Ian got a job pretty easily as an EMT and I’ve been working security at an upscale loft building where the people who live there make more in one year than I will in my entire life. Everyone who lives there is scared of me, but they respect me. These people are important: doctors, lawyers, even some actors. I make sure no pieces of shit come in. I even helped the cops in a stalker case last month.  </p><p>We both make decent enough to have a two bedroom in Washington Heights. It's not the best place, but it's better than the places we had in South Side. Mandy has been to see us once since we moved, hugging us for so long when she got there that I swear my one sweatshirt still smells like her no matter how many times I’ve washed it. She came for the wedding. Nothing special. Just down at the courthouse with Mandy and Lip, who came in from Chicago, just to stand next to his brother. He and Mandy made eyes at each other all night and yeah, I could have protested, but who the fuck am I to tell anyone not to do something? As far as I know they’ve been seeing each other back in South Side ever since. </p><p>We’ve made a good life here. We’ve worked hard for what we have. We know we can't take anything for granted. We almost lost this. We almost lost one another. We won't ever be that reckless again.  </p><p>But sometimes, the need still hums on my skin. Especially when I can't ever ignore the assholes that are still out there doing to kids what was done to us. Ian can't ignore it either. And we both have been eyeing this piece of shit all fucking night. </p><p>Ian catches my eye and we speak paragraphs with our look. We consider our options. We weigh the consequences. We come up with a plan. All with a one-minute-long gaze. We understand each other that well. We have become one with our wants and needs. Outside the bedroom and in. Yeah, there are still fights and Ian still struggles every day with his disease. But we never run from one another. We always stay. It’s a promise we made. No matter how hard it gets, we always stay.  </p><p>With one final small smile to each other, we both have made a decision. A decision that could change everything. But we both can't just let it go. We didn’t plan this. We weren't looking to start anything all over again. We came here for a fresh start. But sometimes, opportunities fall in your lap and you either have to chalk it up to fate or you walk away and take the loss.  </p><p>But neither of us can do that.  </p><p>Maybe we are both fucking nuts.  </p><p>But I’ll take it.  </p><p>Ian eases himself off his barstool and I follow close behind, grabbing both our drinks. He slides himself next to the guy, all smoothness and sex on legs. I stand next to him, hand on the small of his back while Ian does what he does best.  </p><p>He lies. He flirts. He controls. He manipulates. He gives them what they are looking for, just so I can get what I am looking for.  </p><p>Release.  </p><p>“I’m James. And this is my husband Chris.” Ian’s words fall past his lips like syrup. And this guy is already eating it right up.  </p><p>“Samuel.” </p><p>“You were looking at us.” </p><p>“Yeah, you both are gorgeous.” </p><p>“Did you hear that, Chris? He says we’re gorgeous.” Fuck he’s good.  </p><p>“I heard.” </p><p>“What are you looking for tonight, Samuel?” I ask, sipping my whiskey. The guy’s eyes flicker between Ian and I, licking his lips.  </p><p>“Whatever you guys are looking for.” </p><p>Ian laughs and runs his hand over Samuel’s arm and the guy’s eyes darken. Fuck, he makes it look so easy. Maybe it's how he got me. It probably is. But I know who he belongs to. He’s proved that time and time again. He can flirt all he wants. Because I know whose ass he will be in later, and it ain’t gonna be this piece of shit.  </p><p>“Oh, we are looking for a lot. Aren't we Chris?” </p><p>I just nod and move closer to Samuel. “A whole lot.” </p><p>Samuel swallows and then smiles at us. “My car is parked out back. I don’t live far from here.” </p><p>Sometimes, plans change. Sometimes routines you are used to, have to be changed. But Ian and are so in tune with one another, it won't be a problem. It never was and it never will be. </p><p>Ian and I just smile at each other.  </p><p>“Lead the way.”</p>
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